Hungry Thirsty Crazy
by Sinister Papaya Fondue
Summary: The wizarding world is abuzz over a controversial new book by an anonymous author. Hermione accidentally discovers who that author is, and it might change her life - and his - forever...LM/HG
1. Chapter 1

Hermione was in Flourish and Blotts savoring how normal it was. The book shop had closed during the last months of the war. It would only have been used as a vehicle for propaganda, anyway, so it was best that they had boarded it up and fled.

It had been eighteen months. Hermione hadn't come back to Diagon Alley in all that time, unable to bear the broken images she saw in the Daily Prophet. Now it was mostly reconstructed and every shop was bustling like the war had never happened. Even Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was going strong; George had continued it with Lee Jordan. They kept Fred's Order of Merlin in the window of the shop for inspiration, and though the two of them felt that their products had dropped off in quality without him, the public clearly disagreed.

Being here in Flourish and Blotts was the crowning glory. This was the ultimate return of freedom. She could once again peruse the aisles of the gargantuan bookshop, pick out whatever she wanted, and read without a care in the world.

The store was exploding with new books. War was rife with stories and as such a thousand biographies, memoirs, and novels had come out in the time immediately afterward. She herself had been asked multiple times to write one. Hermione had never felt the urge and it seemed kind of absurd to write a memoir when she only had nineteen years under her belt.

Hermione rounded another corner and stopped. In the aisle in front of her no less than four people were standing completely still. All of them were at various points in the same book; a slim white volume with red lettering on the cover.

"Excuse me," she asked the man closest to her, who was also furthest in the book, "but what is that you're reading?" He looked up.

"You haven't heard of it?"

Hermione shook her head.

"It's causing a lot of buzz," he said. "No one knows who wrote it." He reached over a short woman and plucked a copy from the shelf. Handing it to her, he said, "I won't ruin it for you."

Hermione examined it as he moved past her, probably seeking a quieter place to finish the book. The cover was a bright shade of white, adorned only with bold red letters that looked like they had come from a typewriter. FAIM, it was called. Beneath the title, in lowercase, it said 'a memoir'. She frowned. Faim meant hungry in French, didn't it? Yes, she remembered that. There was no author and no blurb on the back of the book. Just that stark word. It was genius, really…even the book was hungry.

She opened the book to a random page.

_He thought when he was young that black and white were the same thing. They were both nothing, equally empty. However, he found out later that black was the absence of all color and white was the presence of every color. It seemed somehow unfair._

_Why, he wondered, was presence better than absence? Why was everything better than nothing? Why did black denote cold, evil, and depravity, where white stood for light, purity, and goodness? Winter was white, he sometimes felt like screaming, and winter killed everything. Night was black and night renewed the world, enabled it to face itself when the sun rose again. Black and white were not black and white and nobody could see it but him._

Hm. So far so good. Hermione turned back about thirty pages.

…_and when the open palm met his cheek the sound echoed off the high gothic archway._

"_Don't say that!" she shrieked. "Never say such a thing again!" Her face was like that of a horse worked into panic; wide-eyed, nostrils flaring, rearing up and away from the threat of his words. She was the filly and he was the snake, the thing coiled in the grass trying to bite her and inject her with the venom of reality._

Hermione chewed her lip. Two for two. Now it only had to pass one more check. This was how she picked books. If she could turn to three separate spots in the book and find what was written interesting in each place, she usually bought it. She turned further toward the back, but not far enough that it would ruin the ending.

_It was no surprise to him that men abused power. He knew from experience that so little of it was ever given that when it came, men lost their minds and their morals. Power was a fast woman, all dark makeup and milky thighs, straddling you on a first date. She let you touch her and when you felt how hot and slick she was you wanted to own her cunt forever._

Hermione coughed slightly and looked around. She was sure she was blushing. Oh, heavens, she wasn't a kid! She could handle sexual metaphors and the c-word. She had read worse. She forced her eyes back to the page.

_He began his copulation with power like anyone else; tentative, but when he found that it was good he wanted it more and faster and harder. She was a willing lover and it coaxed more pleasure out of him than he would at first admit. In fact she wrung him dry and when he was with his wife he couldn't make himself desire her. Not until he realized that he could bring that power with him to the bedroom, anyway, and that…that made his toes curl. His wife never knew it, but from that day forward every encounter was a ménage a trois; him, her, and his silent, invisible mistress._

Oh my. This person certainly knew how to spin a metaphor. She felt mildly dirty and…yes, that passage had made her more aware of certain regions of her body and how neglected they were. If one page of a book could make her horny, it was time to get some action. She sighed; that was easier said than done since Ron was away at auror training.

She was startled out of her thoughts by someone clearing his throat. Unwittingly she had blocked the entire aisle, standing right in the middle of it to read. The other three readers were gone; she was the rude one, obstructing the flow of customers.

"I'm s--" she stopped, stunned. It was Lucius Malfoy at the end of the row, waiting more patiently and calmly than she would have expected. His face, always so aristocratic, was neutral. His cornflower eyes flickered to the book in her hands. To her great surprise, a slight smirk pulled his lips and he said,

"Are you reading about Mistress Power?"

Hermione blushed worse than she was already blushing. Obviously he had read the book. And Jesus, was she really that obvious? No. He was only trying to embarrass her. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"Yes," she tried to recover. "It's an…apt metaphor."

"Indeed," he responded. And that was all he said. No backhanded cruelty, no vile names, no Slytherin rhetoric…Confused, Hermione moved aside to let him pass. It would surely come now, some nasty comment about how mudbloods ought to behave around their superiors.

He kept his silence, though, and brushed past. However, before he turned the corner he paused and looked back.

"If Mistress Power makes you blush…wait until you meet Mistress Pain."

And then he was gone in a flick of pale platinum hair. Hermione stood there for five whole minutes, trying to process the odd encounter. When she realized she couldn't, she walked towards the counter as if hypnotized. Her legs were rubbery as she paid for the book.

* * *

She could barely wait to get back to her flat and read it. Once there she devoured it. The author's talent was undeniable; he – for she was certain now that it was a man – wove the story in rich insights that were often a little disturbing in their accuracy. This was a person who understood the world around him and a person who understood himself, but sometimes had trouble putting the two together.

The book only chronicled his life up until he was twenty-three. Could a twenty-three-year-old really write something like this? Something so…terrible in its own enlightenment? Some of the things that happened to him were gut-wrenching but Hermione's sympathy evaporated time and time again when he later did something similarly awful to another – and knew very well that he was recreating his own hell in someone else. In spite of his heartlessness, she couldn't bring herself to dislike him. Yes, she hated everything this protagonist did, but she didn't hate him. It was disconcerting. By being unable to hate him, it felt like he had somehow…won.

Ginny knocked on the door a moment later. It was only a formality; Hermione was helping her study for NEWTs. Ginny let herself in and made a beeline for the couch. The redhead collapsed onto it with a sigh.

"Tough day?" Hermione asked, pushing the book out of her mind.

Ginny held out a bandaged hand. "Hagrid ran out of flesh-eating slug repellent and didn't tell anyone."

Hermione winced. Poor Ginny. She was almost done with school; Hermione had finished about six months before. Hermione's year on the run should have meant that they finished together. However, many students had received abysmal grades at the Snape-run Hogwarts and chose to repeat the year with a clean slate rather than graduate on time with awful grades. Ginny often voiced that they should have been credited with straight O's for tolerating Snape and his entourage, but there was no bite in the insult.

"So what did you do today?" Ginny asked, blowing a strand of hair out of her face.

"I went to Flourish and Blotts."

Ginny's eyebrow went up. "Are you going to be able to pay your rent?"

Hermione stuck her tongue out and then responded, "Of course. I only bought one book."

"Only one? I'm impressed."

"I know." Hermione picked up the paperback and held it out to Ginny. "Heard of it?"

"Oh, yeah," Ginny nodded, waving her off. "I read it last week."

"Did everyone know about this book before me?"

Ginny shrugged. "I read it because Amelia Wentworth in Ravenclaw said it was the most disturbing book she ever read."

"And?"

"You read it, Hermione. You don't need my opinion."

"I know, but I want to know…how did it make you feel?"

Ginny smiled, knowing what she was getting at. She had been confused by her own reaction until she had talked to Amelia and found out that she wasn't crazy. "If you must know, Hermione - and I'll _only_ admit it to you - it made me feel sick and horny at the same time."

"Oh thank God! I thought I was the only one," Hermione exclaimed. At several points in the book she had had to close it and take a few deep breaths. She had the feeling this author could make _anything_ dirty. Even certain things that were horrible held an erotic undercurrent that made her feel ashamed for responding to it. He was really bloody talented and probably knew it.

"Do you think it's really a memoir?" Ginny asked. "I'm not so sure."

Hermione considered. It was written in the third person; wouldn't most people write their memoir in their own voice? There was also a certain vagueness about the way he described things. He told you enough to understand what was happening, but frequently left you to imagine exactly how. And there was not a single name or proper noun in the entire book. She could understand that. If it was real a lot of people could get in trouble, because many of the he's and she's in the tale had done terrible things...

"Me either." She frowned as an odd feeling settled in her stomach. "God, I hope not."

* * *

A month passed and Hermione forgot all about the book and the odd encounter that had come with it. She was leaving the Ministry after an interview, one that had gone quite well. Most people had expected her to go straight to University after graduation, but the war had shifted her priorities and her ideas. Now she wasn't at all sure what she really wanted to do. There were so many options, healing, potions, charms, and advanced transfiguration among them. How was she supposed to choose?

Mr. Weasley had gotten her an interview in his department. Being a muggleborn was an immense perk, of course. She was fairly certain she'd gotten the position. If she had it would be perfect; she'd gain good experience, make money so that she could pay for her own university fees and her flat, and have enough time to really think about what she wanted to go to university for.

As she left through the visitor's entrance her stomach rumbled. She had skipped breakfast, worried that her nerves might give her a shifty stomach. Now she was bordering on ravenous. Well, there were enough little cafes on her walk back to King's Cross that she was sure to find something to eat.

Ten minutes later she ducked into a small, cozy tea shop. She had about forty minutes before her train. She had decided to go see her parents, feeling like she hadn't in a while, instead of going back to her flat. Walking up to the counter she ordered a muffin and a cup of Darjeeling. That would hold her over until whatever ridiculously large dinner her mother insisted on cooking.

A few minutes later, tea and muffin in hand, she turned and had to decide where to sit. The café wasn't crowded but it wasn't empty. People were interspersed typically, each putting proper space between themselves until it got too crowded to do so. Wait just a bleeding minute…

There he was _again_. Lucius Malfoy. Again! In a muggle café! He was at a table with another man and both were, shockingly, in muggle clothing. Though Malfoy's robe was draped over his chair; he probably wouldn't be caught dead without it.

He looked different in muggle clothing. The pair of reading glasses perched on his nose added to the strange vision. He was talking animatedly with the other man, gesturing now and again at a stack of parchment that was between them on the table. Hermione moved back towards the counter, which would partially obstruct her should he suddenly look over.

"Hey," Hermione said to the girl, "that blond man – have you ever seen him before?"

The girl leaned over to look and nodded. "Yeah, this is the third day he's been here." She smiled. "Not bad to look at, is he?"

"Do you know the man that's with him?" she asked, ignoring the other comment.

"No, first time I've seen him. Looks like some kind of meeting."

"Thanks," Hermione said, nodding, and moved away. If she sat in the booth that was furthest back, she could watch Malfoy and his friend without them being able to see her.

She drank her tea slowly, barely tasting it. She was riveted on Malfoy. Why would he meet someone here, in muggle London? Why would he try to blend in, to look ordinary? That was something the Malfoys simply didn't do. Who was his companion and what on earth were they discussing?

She was halfway through her blueberry muffin when Malfoy reached out, took the stack of parchment, and tucked it into his robe. Then…yes, this was the part she'd been waiting for. Money changed hands – Malfoy to his visitor – and the deal was made. She would bet her left arm that it was something suspicious. A damn good thing she'd seen him; the git was still up to his old tricks, manipulating and tricking and behaving like a foul bigoted creep. Well, this time he wouldn't get away with it.

Hermione wolfed down the last of her muffin, unable to tear her eyes from him as his guest got up and left. Thankfully Malfoy loitered a bit longer, finishing his tea and giving her time to manage the last gargantuan bite. As she wiped the crumbs from her face, he stood up and gathered his robe from the back of the chair. At the last second he dug in his pocket and left some change on the table – muggle money! Never in a million years would she have expected _that_ small kindness. No wonder the counter girl liked him.

He was leaving. Now was the time. Hermione stood and followed him. He was a good block ahead of her, walking quickly. Odd; he was heading towards King's Cross, as well. Good. Maybe in the process of foiling his plans she might not miss her train.

Five minutes went by before opportunity presented itself. There was an alleyway coming up ahead. Hermione sped up and as he passed the alleyway, she pounced. He let out a muffled curse as he was propelled into the dark, narrow space and groped for his wand, which she had already ripped from his pocket. Recognition flashed in his eyes, along with a few other things, and she braced herself for whatever bile he would spew.

"Are you mad?" he whispered harshly. "A muggle could see us!"

Hermione got right to the point, not even registering how strange it was that that was his only concern. "I saw you in the café making your little deal. Give me the papers or get ready for me to call the Aurors."

For a long minute he didn't answer. Then, "This is a mistake, Granger. It isn't what you think."

"Then there shouldn't be any problem with giving me the papers," she said forcefully.

"I can't."

"Yeah, because they've got something horribly incriminating on them, don't they?" Hermione spat. "Fine. I'll let the Aurors take them from you, Malfoy." She raised her wand to call them.

"No!" he said sharply, raising his hand in a gesture of supplication. "No. That isn't necessary." She had been right to play the Auror card. If there was one thing Lucius Malfoy didn't want, it was to become embroiled in more legal trouble or go to Azkaban. "But I'm telling you," he went on, "it's not at all what you think."

"Let me see them!"

His eyes told her well enough how he felt about her ordering him around. If looks could kill, she'd be a pile of dust. But slowly, driven by the fact that there was no other alternative, he reached into his robes. His hand emerged with the stack of parchment.

"You cannot tell anyone of what you see, Granger," he cautioned. He seemed…worried? Of course he was worried, he'd been caught in the act!

She plucked the parchment from his hand. Keeping her wand carefully trained on him, she unfolded the healthy stack and found the first page. It was handwritten in black ink.

_Soif, _it said at the top in sloping letters. French for 'thirsty'. Some kind of code word? She read on. Three paragraphs in, she realized it was a story. Four paragraphs in she realized it was a _sequel_. Oh God in heaven – it was a continuation of that book that had unsettled her so much a month ago. Faim.

Hungry. Thirsty.

She almost dropped the papers. He noticed it and reacted quickly, one hand clasping the side of the stack.

"I swear, if you drop those…!"

Hermione was in shock. "It's _you_!"

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, that should be obvious."

"_You_ wrote that book! Oh my…" Hermione's jaw fell as memories of the book returned to her. The things those words had done to her! Lucius Malfoy's words!

He ignored her epiphany. "Are you happy now, Miss Granger?" he asked, infuriated.

"I…happy?"

"With your paranoia?"

"I'm sorry," she apologized quickly, though Lord knew he didn't deserve it. "I…how on earth did you get it published anonymously?"

"It's very simple. I found a publisher, made an agreement with him that made him rich, and for that he keeps my identity a secret and publishes the book. The sales and royalties go to an untraceable account in Switzerland."

She shook her head, overwhelmed. He had just given her a blueprint of pure cleverness in five sentences or less. The thought of the number jolted her back to reality.

"Shit, my train!"

She practically threw the stack of parchment back at him. She was not going to miss her mother's cooking, not even for the prospect of interrogating this utterly mystifying man. It was better not to know. That was what she told herself as she ran. With a Malfoy, it was better not to know…


	2. Chapter 2

Nothing could have prepared her for the night that followed. She was in the kitchen with her mother helping to put the final touches on dinner when the doorbell rang.

"I've got it," her father said from the living room. Neither of them paid much attention, figuring he would handle whoever it was.

"Careful, Hermione, that's hot," her mother said.

"Yes, Mum," she smiled, lifting the steaming pan. She walked into the dining room, knowing her mum was right behind her with the rest of the meal. She set it down, breathing the lovely smell of shepherd's pie, and turned to help the other woman.

"Gerard?" her mother called. "Are you still at the door?"

"Yes, dear. Someone's here to see Hermione. A Mr. Malfoy?"

Hermione froze.

"Oh, bring him in," she heard her mother say. She tried to find her voice, tried to shout a vehement no, but shock and fear closed her in. The world seemed to tremble with a fright that was almost palpable. Lucius Malfoy, in her house…a hater of muggles and muggleborns…in her house…a man who ought to be in jail, a man who, if his book was truly a memoir, had done things much worse than murder.

And there he was, sedately following her father into the dining room. Again he was without his robes, though not entirely; they were draped over his arm, and that ridiculous cane tapped idly, agitatedly, on the carpeted floor. It occurred to her that it had been all too easy for him to find this place; the layers and layers of wards she'd applied before the war and never removed would have been woefully ineffective had danger ever strayed into her parents' home. She had boarded the train at 12:35, gotten off at 13:55, and it was now 18:15. It had taken him less than six hours to find her.

"Hermione?"

Her mother's voice brought her back. She felt like she was quivering with adrenaline, but it must not have shown. Not to her parents, anyway. They looked perfectly delighted. In contrast, the slight sneer in Malfoy's eyes indicated that he saw everything.

"Shall we…talk outside?" she finally managed, forcing her voice into a stable, emotionless question.

"Oh, that's not necessary, dear," her mother trilled. "We can go in the other room if it's private."

She felt faint. It would be good to get her parents out of the way, but it was a very small comfort to be alone with him. This afternoon had been different. She had the upper hand, he was disarmed and on the defensive – but now, they were equal and there were two muggles for him to exploit. She had no chance if the purpose of his visit wasn't benign.

"No," Lucius said, his voice oddly placating. "I do not wish to interrupt your dinner. I need only a moment."

Hermione could have screamed when her mother spoke next.

"Have you eaten, Mr. Malfoy? You are more than welcome to join us."

Lucius looked down for the briefest of moments, concealing something that flashed across his face. _Probably disgust_, she thought. When he raised his piercing eyes, his expression surprised her. It was calm and aloof, but marginally warmer than before. It might have been amused. Perhaps he was thinking of how much it would discomfit her if he accepted.

"I thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Granger, but I must decline. I have my own family to dine with when I am finished speaking to your daughter." He turned his eyes to Hermione. "Outside, then?"

She nodded. Movement betrayed how little control she had over her fear; her muscles were weak, shivering, and she was sure that as she followed him down the hallway, her eyes fixed on his long, perfectly trimmed blond hair where it rested along his broad back, she was not walking straight. She felt like she was following Hades to his domain, and it wasn't Elysium that awaited her.

Hermione couldn't shake the image. Hades, if he existed, would be a man like Lucius. Cold, beautiful, full of judgment, and clever…oh, so clever. As Hades had tricked Persephone, so must she be sure that Lucius Malfoy did not trick her. Not that she believed his aims were the same.

She closed the door behind her and found herself in the small yard of the home she had grown up in. She felt suddenly self-conscious; her mother's azaleas were wilting, the shrubs overgrown, the grass browned and patchy, and the concrete stairs were cracked. Her parents weren't getting any younger, but they could afford to hire a landscaper, for goodness sake.

"If you will kindly emerge from your coma, Miss Granger, I require something," he said sharply. His voice cut like a new blade.

"What on earth could you need from me?" she returned, substituting disdain for composure.

Pure unadulterated annoyance made a muscle in his jaw clench. "During your heroics this afternoon, you robbed me of my wand. I should like it back."

Her mouth fell open. A fresh wave of shock and fear swept over her. She remembered taking his wand, but thought that she'd thrown it back at him, along with the start of his second dirty story. Her head had been so jumbled, though, that maybe…

Oh, God. She had kept it. She had taken his wand from him. It was in the pocket of her coat. He would kill her for it.

"I'm not stupid. I won't just hand it over," she spat, sounding stronger than she felt. Damn her neighbors; they were out, two houses down. She couldn't pull her wand. He, however, wouldn't give a fizzing whizbee about her neighbors if he wanted to harm her.

"If you won't, I will go purchase another…" his voice lowered, "and I will not be happy about it."

"Are you threatening me?"

He sighed, genuinely disgusted. "Girl, I do not have time to counsel you on the nature of threats. It is what you believe it to be. Now give me my wand."

"No," she dared, her voice not as firm as she wanted it to be. The fact that he was here, _here_, still scared the shit out of her in a way that would never have been present in the wizarding world.

His face turned hard and dangerous. "Then I will have yours."

Her eyes widened as he took a step forward. She had to stun him, her neighbors be damned. That was a mess that could be cleaned up. However, if Lucius got a hold of her wand and used it on her, as his eyes said he would, _she_ would be the one they'd be cleaning off the brittle grass. She reached into her pocket, tried to yank it out, but in her panic the tip got stuck in her shirt. He was upon her too quickly; he wrenched it out of her hand and pointed it at her.

She froze. He was less than a foot from her, imposing in his cold fury. The wand did not like him. It gave off an angry red spark at his touch but he held on. He would not be bested by a muggleborn's discordant wand.

"Now," he said, as if he were talking to someone of vastly less intelligence than himself, "retrieve my wand."

His demand was not followed by an 'or else.' But she would take it how she pleased, and she pleased to label any encounter that involved him pointing a wand at her face as threatening.

Swallowing, Hermione backed toward the door. He didn't move; he was sentinel of stern power. He was so like his protagonist in that moment, detached but exacting, always in control, dominant even in the submissive task of recovering the wand she had taken from him.

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She hastened to get inside. Her heart was throbbing. He might not keep her wand, not once he had his own back, but there was still no guarantee that he wouldn't hex her into next Tuesday. She had only the blind hope that he knew better. He might have; his less attractive habit of cursing her and her filthy bloodline had been completely absent in their trio of interactions. She ran up the stairs and into her old room, where she had tossed her coat without much thought. Her hands trembled as she extracted his wand from the pocket.

It felt wrong in her hand. It didn't react to her the way hers had demonstrated its incompatibility with him, but holding it felt like trying to write with her left hand. Wrong, unwieldy, inexact…she shuddered and left the room. Her feet carried her back down the stairs and out the door.

When the screen had clicked shut, she held the wand out to him warily. There was nothing else she could do, not in this situation. He took it in his left hand. And then, to her complete shock, he held her wand out with his right. At first she was too stunned to move; surely he was bluffing, he'd hex her, or laugh and pull away when she reached for it.

He whistled a minute later, two notes, high then low, like one might whistle at a dog. She saw his hand wave the wand slightly. His arrogance brought her back. She grabbed her wand and this time she kept it out. Never again would she worry about muggle witnesses in his presence.

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" he asked, in that syrupy, condescending way of his.

"Get out of here," she said frostily. "And don't ever come near my parents again."

"You are no doubt aware," he returned, "that if I or anyone had wished to harm them, it would already be done." He surveyed her, sneering. "As it is, they are vastly more agreeable than you."

"Only because they don't know you, Malfoy."

"And you think you do?"

His question, quickly fired, caught her off guard.

"I know what I've read," she recovered. "And what I've seen."

He smiled and it was treacherous. "What you've read, indeed." He moved forward, closing the small gap between them, invading her personal space with ease and intention. Her wand poked firmly into his chest. He didn't seem to feel it at all.

"I will hex you, Malfoy," she warned, her voice firm and tremulous at the same time. He was too close and the violent desire for him to leave made her feel claustrophobic.

"Yes, but tell me…did you like what you read?" His voice was low, silky, devastating…and strangest of all, it was actually interested.

Hermione breathed and tried not to look at him. His eyes were so intense, so goddamn smug in their own knowledge. Her fingers itched to flick the wand and curse him. But at the same time she knew she wouldn't.

"Of course you didn't," he murmured, so close that his breath tickled her cheek. "Such tales are too sordid for prim little Gryffindors."

That got her; she looked up, straight into his eyes, a retort ready on her lips. It promptly died as she was pinned in his gaze. He had been waiting for it, banking on it – as Hades had banked on the pomegranate.

"Ah…" he almost sighed, so much taunting conveyed in one long syllable. "I see." He leaned in closer. Her hand jerked on her wand. However, the jinx she wanted to throw deserted her when his tongue dipped into her ear. She gasped and closed her eyes. The hottest, most incongruous sensation she had ever felt bombarded her; she thought her knees might give out.

What the hell was wrong with her? She couldn't breathe. Ten seconds of the hot, wriggling tip of his tongue and her brain was turning to mush. A fierce slice of lust shot through her abdomen. He knew it, too.

As swiftly as he'd advanced, he retreated, his teeth scraping her earlobe. She nearly fell forward, not realizing that she had been leaning on him.

"Good day, Miss Granger," he said, as if no unpleasantness or innuendo had transpired. And then he walked away.

She had to sit down, but she refused to collapse onto the steps before he was out of sight. When he was gone she lowered herself and breathed, just breathed, until her mother poked her head out the door and informed her that her dinner was getting cold.

* * *

Two nights later Ron surprised her. He wasn't due back from training for another three weeks, but sheepishly informed her that he'd snuck out for the evening and Harry was covering for him. She was happy to see him, very happy, and wasn't at all surprised when the end of dinner found them reclining on the couch kissing.

She had been impatient for his presence, anxious for his lips and hands and body. What he gave her was good – it was always good – but a dark corner of her mind whispered that it was not as good as what ten seconds of Lucius Malfoy's dangerous serpentine tongue had done. She had thought about it again and again, turned it around in her mind, trying to understand _what_ and _how_ and _why_…

His brief flirtation, edged in terror, had wrought a desire in her that was awful in its power. Perhaps he had just found a new pleasure spot on her; after all, no one else had ever done exactly what he did to her before. She tilted her neck back and Ron kissed her, let his tongue stray briefly to the spot behind her ear, and she took the opportunity.

"Ron…try…in my ear…"

He obliged. It felt good, but not the same. Damn it to hell, it was not the same.

Ron loved her as best he could, pushing her to a sweet, muted orgasm that made her sigh. It made her sigh, but it did not make her scream. As she lay on the couch, a tangle of limbs with Ron, that blonde prince of hell flashed into her mind.

She exhaled heavily, clutching Ron's warm body. He was like a life preserver in that moment, but one that held her up when she wanted to drown – because she knew with a terrible certainty that _he_ – Lucius, not Ron – could make her scream. And that knowledge would always be with her, whether she saw him again or not.


	3. Chapter 3

She would never know what made her go back.

Six weeks were gone and she'd heard no more from Lucius Malfoy. It was a bit surprising considering what she knew. She had discovered that he was _the_ mysterious author, the one whose gritty book had literally mesmerized the world; last she heard it was being translated into 36 languages. If that wasn't serious blackmail material, she didn't know what was. Yet he'd made no attempt to contact her.

Perhaps he didn't think her capable of using the information against him. She snorted to herself; that was impossible. Slytherins were obsessively careful creatures and would suspect anyone of anything. So why wasn't he breathing down her neck (agreeable as that might be), attempting to obliviate her, or otherwise threatening her to ensure that his secret stayed safe?

She had no idea. Hermione frowned. Was it possible that he didn't care? No – if he hadn't cared he would have put his name on that book. Vanity and pride would propel him to do so. But wait, who would buy a book written by him? Perhaps he had feared that his name would overshadow his talent. That talent was undeniable; she had re-read Faim, scoured it cover to cover, trying desperately to figure out who was who and if the book's happenings were fact or fiction. It was just as disturbingly good the second time, perhaps better, and even more ambiguous. And this time around, with the unforgettable sensation of him in her head, the book's masterful sexuality nearly made her explode. Oh, if only Malfoy had put his brain to writing sooner…

She pushed her mind away from those thoughts. They never led to anything good. Hermione sighed and flicked her hair, agitated. It bothered her that Malfoy could evoke these things; he was a foul man, one she'd rather see dead than naked. Right?

In all seriousness, though, what was he up to? He would not let things be; she knew it instinctively, like a migratory bird knew its route. It was out of character for him to disappear. That, she reasoned, was what made her go back to the café. When one was tracking a man, one always had to check his old haunts.

But he wasn't there. She asked the counter girl, the same black-haired, edgy muggle, and she said she hadn't seen him in a few weeks. She felt compelled to talk to the girl, whose name was Anna, for reasons she couldn't identify. Perhaps talking to a neutral party would help her sort out her own confusion…

"He's writing a book, you know."

Anna nodded and for the first time Hermione noticed that she wore those large plugs in her ears, the kind that stretched the earlobe to impossible-looking proportions.

"Yeah. Treats me like a thesaurus sometimes," she smiled. "But he always tips well so I don't mind."

Hermione blinked, trying to imagine what words he would need alternatives for. And he would trust a muggle to help craft his life story? Oh, but there was still no guarantee that it was true. There was no guarantee of anything. In fact, she desperately hoped that some of it was fabricated. Thoughtfully, Hermione took a pen out of her purse and pulled a napkin from the dispenser.

"This might sound weird, but…" she trailed off, the pen poised over the napkin.

Anna looked at her patiently.

"Never mind," Hermione said, returning the pen to her purse. "Thanks for humoring me."

* * *

He made his move a week later. An unmarked letter came in the mail, and she really ought to have been smarter about opening it. But the handwriting looked so like his; she recalled it easily, sloping in neat, tight letters across the pages. Precise, perfect, the kind of penmanship that should have taken hours of arduous concentration…and she had no doubt that he could write like that just as quickly as any sloppy doctor.

Oh, she really was smarter than this. She was. But as the sting of his letter set in, she realized she wasn't. He knew it and now she did, too.

_Miss Granger,_

_I thank you for keeping my secret this long. I would not have expected it and was bracing myself to be revealed. However, I don't hold much faith that you will continue to keep such an interesting fact to yourself; whether intentionally or by accident, you would have told eventually. _

_Therefore, you should know that this letter was charmed to respond only to you. By handling, and more specifically, opening it, you have entered into an Unbreakable Vow. The conditions of the vow are this: you will tell no one that I am the author of Faim, Soif, or any other book I might write in the future, until and unless I announce it or someone else declares it. You will tell no one of our previous interactions and any that might take place from this point forward. To violate these terms will be to forfeit your life. You are a smart girl, and as such I'm sure you are aware of how these things work. I shouldn't have to tell you not to show this letter to anyone but I will anyway, since you were silly enough to open it in the first place._

_If it is any consolation, know that since this Unbreakable Vow was not made in person, but rather through twists of magic that are, at best, nefarious, it is possible for me to dissolve it. If circumstances change, you will be released. But don't think for a moment that I won't hold you to it for the rest of my time on this earth, if necessary. Also, don't think I've underestimated you – if you attempt to hasten my demise in order to get out of the vow, it will hasten yours. I do love irony._

_- L. Malfoy_

At first it had been dull, numb shock. He couldn't have. He couldn't have trapped her into an Unbreakable Vow. No. But he had, oh, he had, and _why_ was she so surprised? She knew it was coming. And really, she had expected something worse. Yes, Lucius Mafoy could have taken many paths to ensure her silence, some cruel, some bloody, and some downright sadistic, but all he had done was trick her into the Vow. A Vow that could be released. Coming from him, that could be considered benevolent.

Then it morphed into rage. How _dare_ he! How dare he, in his intolerable smugness, take advantage of the curiosity he _knew_ he'd sparked? She had been played like a harp. How stupid was she? Merlin! He had known she wouldn't stop to think before opening the letter, not once she figured out it was from him. Its very presence, a seemingly innocuous sheet of parchment on her desk, mocked her on so many levels. With an incoherent cry of fury, Hermione incinerated it.

She sat on the edge of her bed, breathing and trying to control her racing thoughts. The implications of the vow swirled in her head. _You will tell no one of our previous interactions and any that might take place from this point forward._ From this point forward. That meant, unmistakably, that this was not the last of it. He would seek her out for his own ends. And because of the vow, she couldn't tell anyone about it. Hermione felt sick. If he managed to trap her…get her alone…Lucius Malfoy could do whatever he wanted and she couldn't say a word.

* * *

She was like a ghost at the Ministry. The specter of the Vow hung over her. Arthur asked her if she was feeling well one day; later, in the bathroom, she saw why. She was losing sleep over this. She was pale and dark, puffy circles ringed her eyes. Her lips were chapped, her clothing wrinkled, her hair at its worst since the advent of puberty…

Frustrated, she slammed her fists on the counter. Wrath welled up inside of her. She had not even _seen_ the man and she was cowering in his shadow! This was not who she was. She was not a frightened girl to be bullied into submission by an absent taskmaster! If Lucius Malfoy thought for _one minute_ that she would not claw and fight and find some way to make this blow up in his face, he was dead wrong.

"Dead wrong," she whispered murderously to herself. At least, she thought it was to herself, but that was proven wrong a moment later when a tiny old woman tottered out of one of the stalls.

"Did you say something, dear?" she croaked.

"No," Hermione said, embarrassed. Good thing this lady was hard of hearing, otherwise Hermione would be the strange person muttering darkly to herself in a public restroom. With a few deep, calming breaths, Hermione cast no less than five spells to improve her appearance: one for the hair, another to du-puff her eyes, a third to moisturize her lips, a fourth to smooth her clothing, and the last to bring a pinch of color to her cheeks.

When Lucius decided to make his next move, she would not look like she was dreading it. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Checking herself one last time, Hermione turned to leave and nearly ran over the little old witch.

The woman looked at her with wide eyes, and then sheepishly said, "My goodness, would you mind teaching me some of those spells?"

Hermione smiled, choked back a laugh, and proceeded to show her all five. The woman, who she learned was no less than a hundred and five years old, was named Mrs. Guinevere Hawkins, and Mrs. Guinevere Hawkins of the Hall of Records, Room 409, swore up and down that Hermione had given her the best makeover of her life. Took fifty years off, she said – and at last Hermione had to laugh.

Smiling, she left the loo with one more friend than she had gone in with, and Lucius Malfoy was forgotten.

* * *

He was forgotten, except by her subconscious. That night, lying beside Ron, she dreamed of him. She dreamed of his crystalline eyes, so cold and capable of such hate, and the anemic curtain of his hair, the only things visible beneath a black hood that she thought at first was the memory of his old Death Eater robes. But no – he was standing in a boat, leaning on an oar the color of bone, and the water beneath the boat crawled with Inferi. Their grey hands rose out of it, knocking against the wooden sides. A crimson mist muffled their groans and the lap of the water. It was reduced to whispers all around her.

And suddenly she was standing on the riverbank. A cold, slimy hand wrapped about her ankle – one of the dead – and she screamed. He laughed, a cold, detached chuckle, and held out his hand. His large, strong, perfectly manicured hand, pale and surreal in the shades of black, red, and grey. She floundered for it, desperate to escape the Inferi that were trying to pull her into the murky water.

They were strong. He stood in the boat, unmoved by her plight. The Inferi pulled her to the ground. She struggled, screamed, felt the scrape of rough sand on her legs – oh God, she was nude – and one of the Inferi dragged itself halfway out of the water in its zeal to claim her.

Its eyes were made of coins. Shiny, irregularly shaped coins, metal that had been shaped and pressed archaically. She looked up at Lucius as a horrible feeling invaded her. There he stood, still as a statue in his rowboat, hand still extended. He beckoned once, a languid flex of his fingers, and she heard the clink of coins as the Inferi dragged her towards the water.

He was not trying to help her. He was…

Demanding payment. Not Hades today – no, he was Charon, the ferryman of the dead, and that was more frightening, because Hades was many things, but he had always been just. Not Charon. Charon the bright, enchanted only by the gold he charged, and if you did not have it, you were left to wander the banks of Acheron for a hundred years…

And then she was under the water. It tasted like blood and dirt; dead hands were upon her, she was drowning, and she could see the rippled outline of his blonde crown where he peered down over the edge of the boat…

The next thing she knew Ron was shaking her.

"Hermione! Hermione! Wake up! It's just a dream!"

The next day she threw out all of her Greek mythology books. Ron watched her as she rampaged through her library, looking utterly perplexed. He had never seen her throw away a book before. Well, that wasn't true – she had discarded her Divination books out of sheer spite, but later admitted that she wished she hadn't.

She dragged the bin out to the curb and sighed. It wouldn't do any good. She had already read all the books. She loved mythology and had been enthralled with it from a very young age. She knew all the stories; the rejection of the books wouldn't make her forget. There were so many more roles he could yet play in her nightmares.

As an afterthought, she went back into the house and plucked his book from the shelf. She marched outside, fully intending to toss it in with the others, but once she got to the bin she couldn't do it. Her hand wavered above the can. It would be so easy to drop it….so easy…

But she couldn't.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: This chapter is angsty and contains underage non-con. You've been warned.

* * *

Another week passed and she heard and saw nothing of him. She was beginning to tire of the bipolarity that he evoked in her without even being present. She was either terrified and skittish, tense with the fear that he would suddenly appear and derail her with his cruelty, or so angry that she wished he would show his cowardly face so she could prove to him how _unafraid_ she was. Hermione had never felt so schizophrenic in her life, and that was saying a lot.

At work Arthur had actually asked her if things were all right with Ron.

"You seem stressed, Hermione," he said.

_Really, what gave you that idea?_ she wanted to scream. But she'd settled for a polite admission that she wasn't sleeping well, and yes, she'd go see a doctor about it. But there was no doctor in the world that could cure her of Lucius Malfoy.

She was determined not to be lulled into a false sense of security by the days that marched by. Was it possible that he'd only put the Vow in place to keep her under control, and he wanted no further contact with her? Come to think of it, it was strange that he hadn't acted more quickly. It made her think that perhaps he didn't care as much about his secrecy as he might let on. And perhaps the Vow was more a formality than anything else.

But the man had, in his own twisted way, come on to her. Of course he was just toying with her, trying to embarrass her, make her feel awful and unsafe and guilty for actually_ liking_ his advances, and he had succeeded on all fronts. He was a master of mind games. That's all his flirtation was – a mind game.

Yet the fact remained that he was what he was: a gorgeous schemer. A man powerfully in control of his charisma and his sexuality. If and when those things were turned upon a person, they crumbled. Strangely, though, she didn't get the impression that he ran rampant. He _was_ married and some emotion must exist there; she, like everyone else, had stolen fervent glances at the Malfoys that strange day the war had ended. They were the only Slytherins there, aside from Slughorn, and prior to that point had given the impression of being completely untouchable – mannequins, almost. But there they stood, huddled together, shocked to the core in firm unity with the rest of the battered crowd. She had not missed the way one hand had clutched his wife's slender fingers and the other his son's tired shoulder.

The voice in her mind piped up and reminded her that if his marriage meant so much, then why had he gone and put his tongue in her ear? It was possible that he cared for his wife, but not in that way…

"Oh, Hermione, stop!" she admonished herself out loud. She had _not_ just been hoping that Lucius wasn't sexually attracted to his wife! Narcissa Malfoy was beautiful, miles ahead of Hermione, even if she did seem the type to be frigid…

There she was, setting women's lib back a hundred years by describing someone's wife as frigid. For all she knew the woman was a nymphomaniac and Lucius had to beat her off with a stick six times a day. Maybe _that_ was why he carried the cane…

A smile tweaked her lips. And she would reflect a moment later that the universe had a sadistic sense of timing, for that was when he walked into her office – cane and all.

At first she could only stare at him, not entirely sure that he was really there. Her mind had been throwing some fantastic variations at her at night; what she'd said to Arthur about trouble sleeping was not entirely inaccurate. In the most recent dream he'd reverted to Hades. He sat on an ebony throne, and she was at his side, his queen – Persephone. Orpheus came before them, begged for his wife, Eurydice, played his lyre with heartwrenching tenderness to beseech the Lord of the Underworld. And in the real story, Hades had been merciful and allowed Orpheus to remove his wife on the condition that he did not look at her until they had left the underworld. Orpheus had failed and Hades' mercy was wasted. But this Hades had no mercy to give in the first place.

Orpheus's song had made her cry in the dream. Lucius was unreadable, immutable, betraying nothing. When the poor man was finished, Lucius pulled out his wand. It looked like the Dark Lord's wand, a thing she had never wanted to see up close. And with a lazy flick of his wrist, the apollonian Lord of the Underworld and Lord of her Nightmares murdered Orpheus. She woke with tears and green light in her eyes.

"Ah, I have just missed a joke, I see," he said, a false note of lamentation in his voice. "Though it is clearly all your own."

She wanted to shout at him, to ask if he was capable of making idle conversation without insulting someone, but all that came out was,

"What are you doing here?"

"I should think that is rather obvious."

"Only to you, Malfoy, but I'd hazard a guess that trapping me into an Unbreakable Vow simply wasn't enough, so you just had to come down here to abrade me with your presence." THERE, it had at last come out right! She was regaining some of her sense around him, although that small whisper in the back of her mind said that maybe it was only because they were in the Ministry, and he couldn't possibly do anything indecent to her in a place that was crawling with Aurors and lawmakers.

One of his pale eyebrows rose slightly. "And she returns to life." He took two steps forward and then arranged himself in the lone chair she had to accommodate guests. She didn't receive many; in fact this was only its fourth use. He made the battered, spindly thing with a cracked vinyl seat look like a throne.

She reverted to staring, flummoxed by his reaction. He couldn't be provoked! This was not the same man she remembered, however briefly; in the past, any slight from her lips would have sent him into pertinacious monologue on why he was better than her and what he would do if she opened her mouth again. He seemed to have gotten that reflex under control.

Hermione sat down behind her desk, resigned. He was being pleasant enough. She may as well just deal with him. The quicker, the better…

"What do you want, then?"

"What, no small talk about the weather?" he asked in mock-disappointment.

"You have five minutes, Malfoy, before I call the Auror Department and tell them that you're harassing me."

"Try it, Miss Granger, and I will do more than harass you." His voice struck like a sniper's bullet.

She met his eyes, gauging how serious he was. Changed or not, he was mercurial and she was convinced the entirety of his soul resided in his little finger. She was not sure where his meager conscience might exist; maybe it was there, in the nebulous circle of his pupils.

_Black and white were not black and white and nobody could see it but him._

His words sprang unbidden into her mind. They were a warning, a reminder that nothing that came out of his mouth was one hundred percent accurate. But still, if the promise of harassment was even fifty percent true, she wanted none of it. Swallowing, Hermione folded her hands and tried to look like she wasn't intimidated.

She kept her voice level. "I am sure, Mr. Malfoy, that the weather has nothing to do with your visit."

"That is where you are wrong," he responded. "I find the weather here quite dreary and obstructive to my progress."

She was about to ask what he was referring to and then remembered the second novel. Soif. A small kernel of relaxation bloomed in her stomach. He was only here to tell her he was going elsewhere to finish his writing. He just wanted to reiterate how cleverly he'd penned her in and ensure that things would stay quiet in his absence.

But that was not what came out a minute later when he opened his assassin's mouth.

"Here's the conundrum, Miss Granger." He paused, looked over his shoulder, and waved his wand at the door. It creaked slowly shut. As the door latched, that small kernel of hope in her gut promptly shriveled up and died. "You are the only one who knows of the book or that I write at all."

That surprised her. "Not your wife? Dra--" she started to say the name, but thought better of it, "your son?"

He shook his head.

"Why?" It was stupid to ask and he would probably scoff at her without offering any kind of answer. Slytherins were notoriously good at answering questions with scathing rebukes. She frowned, firing off another query before she gave him a chance to reply to the first. "If they read the book, don't they know it's you?"

Lucius actually laughed. Tilted his head back and laughed. It made her feel like she was watching a particularly demented circus. Not the act itself, or the sound of his laughter – that was curiously normal and maybe even pleasant – but this was a man who didn't laugh. Evil laughter didn't count.

"You are funny, Miss Granger. I am truly dejected that I missed your joke earlier." The smile faded from his face. "You assume that my wife and son read."

It boggled her mind. How could anyone _not_ read?

"I doubt my wife has read anything but her gossip papers and torrid bodice-rippers in the last ten years. Draco sees no point in reading if he doesn't have to, which is probably why you consistently beat him in school. I have heard that you cannot be torn from your books for anything short of natural disaster."

"Judging by your colorful vocabulary, you've been reading your wife's bodice-rippers, too," she retorted, not knowing where the comeback came from but appreciating it nonetheless.

He shocked her again by smirking and stating, "Only in the loo when there is absolutely _nothing_ else."

Hermione shuddered, physically shaking in her chair. That was a thought that she didn't need. She was perfectly content to see him one-dimensionally. She was fine with him being a walking robot that had absolutely no bodily processes that required a loo or reading material for a sustained visit. God, if he saw the pile in _her_ bathroom…

"I return to my original question," she said. "What do you want?"

"As you are the only person who knows of my endeavors," he replied, all business in spite of the previous whimsy, "you are the only person I can talk to about them. And I confess, Miss Granger, I have a problem."

Hermione swallowed. Any problem of Lucius Malfoy's was a problem that she preferred to avoid like the plague. She waited, not wanting to look interested because she _wasn't_. She just wanted him to go away.

"Since our initial encounter I have only been able to write one paragraph."

"One?" she squeaked. "But it's been nearly eight weeks!"

"Yes, my calendar informed me of that quite sufficiently, thank you," he snapped, sullen.

She had no idea what to say. Lucius was rapidly turning every expectation she'd held on its head. He was looking at her expectantly, a hint of a natural pout on his lips.

"You – you have writer's block," she stammered at last.

"Writer's block?" he asked, leaning forward intently. "What exactly is that? And can it be cured?" He was so serious that she had to struggle not to laugh. He had obviously never heard the phrase before. To the uninitiated, she supposed it might sound like some sort of medical condition.

"It means that something is preventing you from writing. I've never experienced it, but others have told me that no matter how much you want to write, and how many ideas are in your head, it refuses to happen when you sit down with the quill in hand."

"Accurate." He frowned, his lower lip going between his teeth in a subconscious gesture. "I know what I have to write, what I want to write, but it will not come out."

"Well, what did you do when you were writing the last book and you got stuck?"

He sat back and shook his head. "I didn't get stuck."

"At all?"

He shook his head again. "I…" he paused, reconsidering whatever he was about to say and deciding to say it anyway, "I wrote it in six days."

Hermione could have fallen out of her chair. Six days? Twenty-three years in six days! Faim was pure genius, and full of strong emotion, besides; it would have taken her the better part of her life to craft something like that.

"How is that even possible?" She didn't mean to ask it out loud, but her mouth had other ideas.

"I am not entirely sure, myself."

_Azkaban made a cut and that was what bled out of me._

She heard his voice, clear as day, but he hadn't spoken. Her eyes widened.

"Are you a Legilimens?"

His wintry eyes snapped to attention. "I fail to see how that relates to our present conversation."

"'Azkaban made a cut and that was what bled out of me,'" she recited.

To his credit, he managed to rein in the majority of his shock. It was reduced to a polite cough and a few rapid blinks. Then he went very still. Realization permeated his handsome face.

"Oh, bugger," he said slowly. "It must be a side effect of the magic I used to create the Vow."

_More trouble than it is worth!_ His voice sounded in her head again.

"You've got that right!" she nearly shouted. Alarm flared in her entire body. "Oh Merlin, can you hear what I'm thinking?!"

"No," he replied. Then his eyes narrowed. "Not yet."

"Explain," was all she could coherently emit.

Lucius took a deep breath and crossed one leg over the other. "The best I can do is speculate. It took powerful magic to create the Vow over such a distance and without your physical presence to seal it. So now that you and I are in close proximity, the magic must be amplified. It must be connecting us in a stronger way."

"Then if we're apart the effect would fade?"

"I don't know. I would hope so."

A frustrated ire rampaged through her like a match dropped on a trail of gasoline. What had he been thinking, tinkering with magic that even he didn't fully understand? It was bad enough to be tethered to him by the Vow, but now this? Having him in her head would drive her insane.

"I assure you, the feeling is mutual," he snarled.

Hermione blanched. Already he had figured out how to attune to her.

"And for your information, Miss Granger," he went on, incensed, "I was thinking that I had a lot to lose if you ran your pretty mouth."

She stood up, her palms slapping the desk as she leaned forward. "You still have a lot to lose, and you will when I figure out how to go digging inside your brain, Mr. Malfoy."

It was his turn to blanch, though he did it with more grace and subtlety than she did. She had read him right once more; his veiled expression said that he'd rather die than give her free range of his mind. Truthfully, she felt the same.

"Remove the Vow," Hermione said.

"No."

"I won't tell anyone, I promise."

"Forgive me if I place less faith in promises than I do in compulsion," he sneered.

"Do it or I will find out exactly which parts of that book are true, Malfoy." She hurled a thought at him, sure that he would intercept it – a line of his book that had haunted her. _The taste of dirty skin and dirty deeds lingered, sickening him with its refusal to die…_

He stood up too fast, galvanized. His cane clattered to the floor. _Low, girl, very low._

She held his vicious glance, knowing by his reaction that it haunted him, too. But she couldn't feel any sympathy, not now, not when she was so close to escaping this hellish situation. _I can't help it if I have to sink down to your level._

He crouched to retrieve his cane and straightened up to his full height, his chin tilting up. _It's so noble of you to engage me in familiar territory._

_I learn by example._

"We can do this all day," he said out loud. "And frankly, I am done here." He pivoted crisply and walked out the door. But she could hear his turbulent thoughts as he made his escape:

_That bitch…that cruel, black-hearted bitch…_

Then his presence faded, and Hermione was alone.

* * *

She was magnetically drawn to his book that night, pulled by some incomprehensible force to her gap-toothed bookshelf. She still wasn't sure what had happened that afternoon. He was right, though. She had been an awful bitch. He had not really threatened her, insulted her, nothing; it had bordered on civil conversation for a few minutes there. And then…

The red typeface on the cover seemed remarkably menacing now. Its starkness was a violent statement, an aggressive minimalism. It hurt, just like what she was about to do.

She opened the book and scanned. She had read it twice already, this part, and both times her mind had recognized the awfulness of it and the razor-sharp narrative. The first time she hadn't known who the author was; the events made her woozy and cathartic but that was it, because things were never as bad when you couldn't assign a face to them. The second time she had known it was him, but an odd desire for self-preservation made her skim over it quickly, pretending like it was not there. Since discovering it was his book, she hadn't thought about the implications of these pages. She had never _felt _it with him. Even knowing that _he_ had written it and that it might be an exceedingly painful droplet of truth, she hadn't been courageous enough to feel it.

She was going to feel it now. She found the page, close to the beginning.

* * *

_The night was warm and heavy but he was too young to recognize the air of potential. He was also too young to understand that low, moonless nights like this one overflowed with a darkness that had nothing to do with the rotation of the earth._

_The path was dewy and his shoes would be soaked. If he could get a house elf to do a drying spell it would save him a lecture. He was distracted at the thought and didn't notice the shadow. There had never before been a shadow._

_The man smelled like tobacco; that scent he knew from his father's occasional cigar. There were other smells, too, things he would later come to know as the stink of an unclean body and worse, cheap spirits. A fifteen-stone vessel of vice, this man was, this drunk muggle…_

_But for a drunk the man was fast. And for a child, he was necessarily slow, not recognizing the danger until it was too late. He had always been taught that muggles couldn't do anything to wizards. Muggles were weak, useless, powerless…_

_But this muggle, this vagrant, was so strong, and he was too young to have a wand. He had never been shown how to protect himself without magic, again because magic was the only thing that could hurt him._

_Wrong. It was all lies. He wanted to scream as the man wrestled him down. And he did; the reek of his attacker filled his nose and mouth as he cried out. He screamed but knew the sad futility of the road he was on. It was a country lane, traveled by less than a dozen people in a day. This far along, at this time of night…no one would hear._

_He fought. The man was bigger than him but he might be able to struggle away. He almost succeeded, driven by the knowledge that he was in terrible danger if he did not get away, if not quite understanding what that danger was. He would come to know soon enough._

_The stone came down on the side of his head and jarred his brain, scattering his thoughts and stilling his limbs. He was a rag doll. He wanted to move, to resume his fight, but his arms and legs would not obey. Pain saturated his consciousness, filling it up and overflowing, an excruciating throb of failure. He thought he knew what pain was, then._

_He saw his hands, blood so dark in the night that it seemed like dirty oil. His hair was being pulled, twisted, and it renewed the waves of sharp suffering. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he move? He'd hit his head before, every child had, but never had it incapacitated him like this. Never had he felt a prisoner in his own body._

_Fear flooded in, replacing the pain with its queasy adrenaline. This man was going to hurt him. He already had. What if he could never make his mind work again? What if he was forever paralyzed? What if his brain was so grievously injured that these were his last moments, these harrowing, guilt-ridden, helpless moments?_

_The man pulled him roughly about. If these were his last moments, why couldn't he just die? Why couldn't he just die, slip away, fade into nothing as the vagrant's hazily understood actions played out? But he had no such luck. None…_

_He choked a moment later, invaded by a foul taste, something he knew he ought not have his mouth on. A hot shame cascaded in him; this man, this base, powerless man, had put _that _in his mouth, that unmentionable part, it was in his throat, gagging him, cutting off his breath, and he wanted to scream and vomit and cry and die all at the same time._

_A shred of sense returned to him and he knew he should bite. But he was terrified of what the man would do to him if he did. Was there something worse than he was already doing? Death, maybe. He could move his hands at last, though they felt heavy and tingled and like one great glove. Still, they worked, and he dug his nails into the man's thighs, drawing blood._

_It paid off. He didn't have to bite. He could breathe a moment later, collapse to the ground and breathe and cough and feel his stomach threatening to spill. He wanted it to; he wanted to tear off his own skin and turn it inside out and beat this man's dirt out of it like the house elves beat dust out of the carpets._

_His return to comprehension was short-lived. The man hit him again, almost in the same spot, and it hurt so badly that he knew he was crying. It was the kind of pain that would make a grown man cry, so as a nine-year-old he didn't stand a chance._

_And it became worse. It became much worse as his face was pressed into the weeping grass and something was inside him. Oh, God, what was that? How did it hurt so much? The man was cutting him in half. It stung, it stung and bit and tore and opened him further than he could open. He closed his fists around the grass, dug his fingers into the wet soil, tried to pretend that it was dew on his face, not tears of hate and helpless stigma. He tried to merge right into the dirt because that was what he felt like._

_He heard the man tell him that he was pretty, that he was good and wonderful and perfect. He despised the words, felt them brand into his skin. This is what pretty, good, wonderful, and perfect got him. With the man's weight on top of him, his body doing this monstrous thing – a thing he didn't have a word for, not yet – he resolved that he would never be pretty, good, wonderful, or perfect again._

_He thought that it was quick but he couldn't be sure. Every moment felt like eternity in hell. But finally the muggle made a loathsome sound and loosened his grip. His insides stung like salt grated into a wound and he bit his lips to choke down a scream. He lay like that for a long time, still and frozen. The man patted his hair, reaffixed his clothing with rough hands, and left._

_He wasn't sure he could move. His entire body pulsed with pain, a low, dull constant, and movement might make it worse. At last the thought of his mother or father coming to look for him and finding him like this propelled him to try to get up. They would not feel sympathy. They would blame him for sneaking out, for going to the village to play with the muggle children. They would tell him it was his own fault and instinctively he knew those words would kill him. Because it wasn't – was it?_

_His arms shook as he pushed to his knees. He was wet and bloody and sticky. His skin crawled. An irrational fit hit him, in which he shook and screamed and wished that he could flay himself. And his mouth, oh God, to cut out his tongue would be a sweet relief. The taste of dirty skin and dirty deeds lingered, sickening him with its refusal to die…_

_Later he would not know how he did it, walking the rest of the way home like a shell-shocked refugee. Limping was more like it. Mercifully his parents were asleep or wrapped up in their own business. His entrance went unnoticed and in the safe haven of his bedroom he could finally put order to his thoughts._

_He could not face them looking like this. He was bruised, grimy, smelling of grass and cigarettes, his hair stained with clotted blood. And he was bleeding _there_, it hurt terribly to sit down, to move at all. He couldn't do anything about it himself. He knew no useful magic, couldn't heal, nothing. The only option was one of his parents – or the house elves._

_He called a house elf. It cried as it helped him, fussing until the sounds of its pity drilled a hole in his composure and he told it to shut up. Still its huge eyes watered and it dared to ask him if it should retrieve his parents. He said no and swore it to secrecy. This was something no one could know and he was sure the elf's fanatical loyalty would keep it in line. _

_The elf healed him, made it like it had never happened. He gave it the torn and bloody clothing, instructing it to burn them beyond recognition. And lastly, he asked for a cup of strong mint tea. When it got there, steaming, volcanic, he did not wait for it to cool, but much to the creature's horror, gulped it down, tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes as it burned. But it was the only way…the only way to banish the taste of him from his mouth. The mint and the fire did it. He could not taste anything for a week._

_He didn't see that house elf for a long time afterwards. Perhaps it was afraid of him, or afraid that it might be tempted to tell his parents if it saw him. But in its absence his gratitude metamorphosed into something else – hate. Hate because it knew, it knew how weak he was, how stupid, how filthy…and it would always look at him with that unwavering pity, pity he didn't want._

_He wanted no one's pity, but the knowledge of what had happened – what had been done to him, to _him, _a wizard, by a lowly muggle – built up in his mind, day after day, torturing him. He was better than that. He was. He should never have been so weak._

_And the crowning glory of that torture was that they didn't even notice. He knew he looked sick, felt sick, barely ate, and some days couldn't even think about smiling. But his parents, in their pristine world, caught none of it. On his tenth birthday they held a small, sedate party for him and it was a grand struggle not to break down, not to take the knife that had been charmed to cut the cake and plunge it into his own atrophied heart._

_So if he could pinpoint where it all began, where he had gone wrong as a human being, it was there. It was walking that country lane alone at night, too naïve to understand that the world was full of predators. It was not telling them right away, not letting them see him – because even his imperial sire and dam would have been moved by a boy beaten and sullied and bleeding down the back of his thighs. Blame would have been better than secrecy. Shame would have been better than rage. And perhaps a little recognition would have kept him from resorting to violence, from smiling and laughing as faceless drunks and highwaymen died beneath his fingers. _

_Never that one, though. He never found that man again. He searched as he grew older, prowled with an insane need to choke the life out of him, but in the end someone else beat him to it. The muggle newspaper reported that he had been found dead, his head cracked open on cobblestone, and his only solace was that perhaps another victim had done it. Because he couldn't bear to think that he had been the only one…_

* * *

Hermione shut the book and mopped at her tears. She couldn't read any more. She knew what came next. He had tried to tell his mother, thinking she was the better candidate, but she had responded with denial and cruelty. Told him he shouldn't make up lies, that he better not ever say anything to his father if he knew what was good for him. Merlin, she wanted to kill the woman. She would have self-destructed long before Lucius did, plunging himself headlong into the whim of his depthless rage…

She understood now. She understood why he hated muggles, why he treated his house elves so badly, just…why. That didn't excuse it and didn't change any of the things he had done, but it enabled her to feel a deep and painful sympathy. Not pity, because he'd probably kill her if he saw that in her eyes. She took that lesson from his anonymous disclosure.

_Azkaban made a cut and that was what bled out of me._ Oh, Merlin. That was what he had seen, felt, experienced, every moment in Azkaban. She was amazed he hadn't taken his own life. Then again, she didn't know if he had ever tried. He might have. There were many things she didn't know.

She did know that she had to apologize. It had truly been a low blow to taunt him with his own tragedy. It took a lot of courage to put it down on paper, even decades later. The fact that no one knew whose tragedy it was didn't matter. Writing it down made it real, acknowledged it, confessed to its power…

Why had he published it? Why? Well, with no one knowing it was him, it was a way to exorcise the demon; he had not told anyone before, but now he'd told the entire world without having to bear witness to its reaction. It had to be therapeutic in some odd way. And maybe…maybe he had at last come to peace with it. Maybe it was written in the third person because he was _not_ that person anymore.

She could sit there all night and analyze him, but the reality was that she knew nothing other than what he'd chosen to reveal. While it was more than he might have admitted if he had known anyone would ever discover his identity, it was probably still just the tip of the iceberg. And Lucius Malfoy was one hell of an iceberg.

Yes, he stretched widely across her path, and though she had not yet run aground on him, she had cracked his foundation and she was in danger of being drowned by the resulting tsunami. She was still tied to him, still vulnerable to his manipulation, and now she had actually given him reason to exploit it. Hermione could only hope that she would find a way to navigate around him…


	5. Chapter 5

AUTHOR'S NOTE: PLEASE READ THIS! Ok, I am doing something at the end of this chapter that I'm fairly sure has never been done before. I'm also fairly sure that some of you may not like it, but once I wrote it, it felt too right to change. As I say with many of my fics, DO NOT ASSUME ANYTHING. Nothing. I know that's hard – I'm the same way, and I jump to conclusions and try to figure out what the author is doing or where he/she is going. But please try not to make assumptions about how this story is going to pan out based on this chapter alone! That's all for now. Let me know what you think.

* * *

He didn't wait as long this time. Nor was he so gentlemanly; she knew before she felt the tug of apparition that it was his hand clamped over her mouth, his arm wrapped tightly about her waist. As soon as they appeared wherever he had taken them, he pulled his hand away. It was as if he had read her mind; she had been about to close her teeth around the fleshy part of his thumb. Ah, yes – he _could _read her mind now. And she his.

But as he released her, she heard nothing from him. She whirled. Disorientation made the world spin farther than her body and it took her a moment to focus on him. He was without his robes, a tad disheveled, his sleeves rolled up and wrinkles in his pants that could only be noticed if one was truly looking for them. His face said that he hadn't slept. There were ink stains on his fingers. Lucius Malfoy had been writing.

He looked the slightest bit crazy. Perhaps it was only the hint of red in his eyes, the way a few strands of his hair were out of place. As she looked, his hands came up to smooth his pale locks in a gesture that was full of self-conscious frustration.

"It worked." His voice was dry and hoarse.

"What…?" she asked. Hermione wondered if he had eaten, but it didn't seem likely.

"I'm not blocked anymore." He twitched almost imperceptibly. Agitation was plain on every inch of him and at last she began to feel his mind. It was racing, restless, full of sentence fragments she couldn't understand. "At least I wasn't. Thirty-six pages. Now…"

_Nothing_.

Hermione blinked. It wasn't Lucius Malfoy in front of her; it was one of those chronically misunderstood people, an eccentric artist driven insane by his own talent. She half expected him to pull out a knife and cut off his ear. The man had to sleep! Now she took in his desk; there was a quill bent in half, a blank page with one splotch of ink on it, an upset brandy glass.

"How long have you been awake?" she asked.

"I don't know," he snapped. "It doesn't matter. You have to do it again."

"Do _what_ again?"

He crossed his arms. "Enrage me." _Enrage me,_ his mind went on. _Make me so angry I can barely see._

She took a step back. "Why on earth would I want to do that?" _I don't have a death wish._

"Because it _worked_, silly girl, it worked! I came back and I was able to write." _Sure, I broke almost everything in this cottage first, but that was easily fixed, and--_

"But you just said--" she protested, trying not to listen to his railing thoughts.

"Yes, yes, that's why I brought you here." He looked annoyed. "You had no objection to inciting my wrath before."

"It isn't healthy, Lucius," there, she had said his name even though it felt colossally strange. "There has to be another way."

His brow creased. He was listening to her thoughts, which were quickly becoming as chaotic as his own.

"You're afraid I'll hurt you."

"Won't you?" she challenged.

"No," his mouth said, but his mind betrayed him. _Maybe._

Steeling herself, Hermione walked over to the fireplace. She took a handful of floo powder and looked back at him. "Get some sleep, Lucius."

* * *

The effect of the Vow's magic was becoming worse. She could feel him at the edge of her mind now, always there, like a fly trapped in a hot room. And when she slept…gone were the hazy dreams of Olympian gods. As horrific as some of them had been, in the wake of the things _he_ saw in his dreams, she wished she could have them back.

She knew the dreams were his because she dreamt in color and he in black and white. It was slightly ironic, considering his ruminations on black and white. And there was no sound; his mind at night was a silent movie and it was all the more disturbing for it.

There were disjointed images of everyone she had never wanted to see. Voldemort, two people she assumed, by their resemblance, were Lucius's parents, Snape, Bellatrix LeStrange, Narcissa and Draco (those dreams were the worst because he was watching them be tortured), and a man that looked a lot like Mundungus Fletcher and smelled about as good, because yes, she could _smell_ in his dreams and frequently did. Tobacco, alcohol, mint, citrus, grass, something floral, gardenia perhaps, and a familiar smell that jolted her because she realized that it was a scent that had always hung about Draco – perhaps whatever he'd put in his hair or some type of cologne. Her senses had noticed it and filed it away in her subconscious without her even knowing.

In fact, she began to be able to identify what kind of dream it would be by whatever scent wafted to her imaginary nose. Tobacco and alcohol were always either his father or that muggle vagrant and she wished to God that she didn't have to witness either. She could tell even without words that his father had been a cold, overbearing man and his guilt at having been the same to Draco overflowed in those dreams. As for the vagrant, well, she was in his mind for those, feeling his childlike agony, and she hoped with all she was worth that she had not triggered them with her insensitive comments.

The mint dreams were senseless things. If anything was recognizable in them, it was the occasional stretch of corridor from Hogwarts. Sometimes there was Snape, his black, unreadable eyes constant in a body and face that changed with age. His feelings there were ambiguous, confused, possibly guilty but unsure if he had anything to be guilty for. Lucius had a lot of guilt, it seemed. It was a good sign.

Citrus was his mother. She had raised him kindly, if formally. She was as much a subject of his father as he had been and she felt his conflict. He wanted to loathe her for what she had done. He wanted to, but he couldn't, but yes he could, oh, yes he could…

Grass was the worst. Surprisingly those dreams were not about what had happened to him on that country lane. They were Death Eater dreams. Voldemort swam before her. The Dark Mark blighted his pale arm. He did evil things. He maimed, he killed, yes, he raped – and he hated himself but could not break the fierce addiction to causing pain and receiving it. It was, she suspected, better than feeling nothing at all…

Gardenia and that weird cologne were the peaceful dreams. They were stable, quiet, gentle, and _happy_, because sometimes he could feel happiness around his wife and even more around his son. She was beginning to suspect that only Draco had kept him living. Lucius might have been perfectly happy to die violently in the service of the Dark Lord, if not for his son.

He must not have known that his mind was leaking into hers at night. These were exceptionally private things. Her dreams were rarely so specific or so revealing; usually they were just a jumbled combination of whatever she had done and thought of in a given day. They had been disturbing of late, the visions of Hades and Charon, but nowhere near as disturbing as his. Maybe he knew and didn't care and luxuriated in the inane disorder of _her_ dreams.

During the day she didn't hear him, but Hermione dreaded the time of night where she became so tired she could no longer keep her eyes open. Tonight was just such a night; her eyelids were drooping and the prospect of another evening spent in the ether of his nightmares was almost too much. She wished she had paid more attention when he brought her to that cottage. She might have been able to find it again.

And then what would she do? Oh, she just might ambush him while he was asleep in bed, torturing her with these images. She'd hold her wand to his neck and tell him that if he did not remove the Vow she'd go after Draco. He had been smart enough to factor in harm to himself, but not to anyone else. And if he thought for one second that she wouldn't do it, he was, once again, dead wrong.

She had no idea where the cottage was, though, and she'd never be able to catch him off guard during waking hours. Hermione was confident that she would see him again. Maybe by that time he would be as maddened by the connection as she was. At this rate she was going to have to ask Harry to teach her Occlumency and that would lead to a boatload of uncomfortable and potentially deadly questions. There was no guarantee that it would work, anyway, because Lucius _had_ to be an Occlumens, even if he wasn't a Legilimens, and she was strolling through his deviant mind every night regardless.

Sighing, Hermione gave in and slid beneath her covers.

* * *

It smelled like apples. This was new.

Hermione opened her eyes and she was looking down at – herself? Yes, herself, and she was making a strange face. She mistook it for pain at first. Why wasn't she wearing any clothes? Then she was flooded with mortification. That was no expression of pain! She was…she was watching herself during lovemaking!

How? What? But most importantly, who? Whose eyes was she looking out of? It couldn't be…but the tendrils of pale blond hair in her peripheral vision confirmed it.

_Lucius was dreaming about her!_ Dreaming about having sex with her, more accurately. Merlin, did she really look like that or was it his imagination? Her mortification burgeoned. Irrelevant! Completely irrelevant!

She made the grievous mistake of reaching out toward their connection, intent upon severing it somehow. There had to be a way. But as she neared it, the images became more intense and it was not just sight and smell; she could taste and _feel_ as well…

She gasped with the passion of it. She tasted her own skin under his tongue as he leaned down to leave a scorching mark on her neck. There was something incredible happening in her groin. This was as close as she was ever going to get to understanding what sex felt like for a man. My God, no wonder they liked it so much…

She tried to be offended, tried to be disgusted, but it was impossible. He _did_ want her. It wasn't just a mind game! Oh, sweet Merlin, he was on the move, he wanted to…!

Hermione jerked awake. She had propelled herself out of sleep with sheer willpower. She simply could not take the combination of him dreaming about pleasing her orally and how hot it made her to think about him actually doing it. She thumped her hand into the mattress in frustration. Five minutes in his fantasy and she was wishing she could march into that cottage for an entirely different reason than before.

She tried to calm herself. There was nothing to be done for it; the incongruous arousal he had inadvertently sent her could not be denied. Ron was at his latest round of auror training so of course she was alone. It was times like these she fervently hated monogamy.

It was 4:22 am. She had been asleep less than three hours and Lucius bloody Malfoy had woken her up with a sex dream. Well, there was no harm in thinking about it, right? There was nothing wrong with thinking about him with his tongue between her legs…

Oh, God. It was unbearable! Abandoning the vestiges of her control, she let her hand sneak into her knickers. She was too practiced at this, lately. Merlin, she was dripping. Did he really have that effect on her? She tentatively trailed a finger over her clitoris and found it swollen and extremely sensitive. Yes, it seemed he did.

She found her image of him as she circled the responsive little bud with the pad of her finger. There was the pale crown of his head, his hair spread across her thighs, those devilish blue eyes, and that tongue, that provoker of agony and ecstasy, tracing his name across her center…L, U, C, I, U, S…

Two minutes. That was all it took. She shuddered, bit down a cry, mindful of the fact that her flat shared a wall with the neighbors, and her mind was like a rowboat in a gale as she came.

She lay in its fading waves, breathing hard. Holy hell, this was going to be a problem. She wouldn't survive if he kept having dreams like that. This tempest had to be sheared by a cold north wind, blown out of its tropical pocket of steamy fuel, before it could become the storm of the century.

* * *

For the first time, she tried as hard as she could to enable their connection. She needed to find him. She had barely slept in three days; she was so paranoid that his mind would stray back to that lovely encounter. It hadn't thus far but even the chance wound her more tightly than a cuckoo clock.

She puzzled over her lunch that she was actually a little worried about him. That last encounter…he had been himself, but a more manic version. If he kept on that way he'd make himself sick. Whatever he was trying to write was eating him alive. Could there be something _worse_ than the things in Faim? She hoped not, but knowing what she did, it was possible and even probable.

Oh, Lucius. Never did she think she'd feel bad for him, that unfairly beautiful package of hate. But she didn't just feel bad, she felt _awful._ Hermione didn't delude herself into thinking that he cared; more likely than not, he itched to be rid of her, she who knew so much. But if that was the case, why didn't he just break the Vow?

She sighed. She imagined that in his mind there were two options. One, he could suffer her presence and her knowledge, but ensure that his secrets remained secrets. Or two, he could release her from the Vow and in doing so release himself from the obligation of existing in the same space as someone who _knew_, someone who could point a finger at him and extol how wrapped up he was in his own illusions – although only at the risk of her telling someone else. She wouldn't, of course, but he would never trust her.

Well, that was not strictly true. She _did_ want to tell someone else. She wanted to make them understand. The world saw him as she had before this; a vile man, callously sure of his own superiority, with no scruples and no care for anyone but himself. Hermione knew better. He would go to hell and back for his son. She wasn't sure about his wife; he cared for her but she occupied a space of ambivalence in his mind. It was amazing that he could care for anyone, though. For so long he had operated purely on self-preservation.

She was too easily overlooking his litany of crimes. One traumatic experience didn't excuse a lifetime of brutality. There were things he could have done. He could have talked to someone. If he had known that muggle's name, and he must have because he read the report of his death in the newspaper, he could have reported him. He could have had legal recourse, even though he had made the mistake that many victims did – destroying all the evidence. But what nine-year-old would have any concept of that? And by the time he was old enough to understand, whatever statute of limitations existed would have run out.

His parents might have known better. Oh, how she wished he had just gone to them. She didn't understand how any parent could condemn his or her child for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and being harmed by an adult that was clearly sick or evil or both. Yet she hadn't known his parents. She had no idea how traditional purebloods operated, save for what she had witnessed from him and Draco. Would he have condemned Draco for that? No, her gut said. No, he would have found that depraved muggle and killed him slowly and painfully and without any remorse at all – regardless of whether his own terrible violation had ever occurred. She didn't want to think about what he would have done if he had ever caught up with his attacker…

So he had been fenced in by old prejudices, the polarization of childhood thought, the inability to understand that love usually trumped shame and expectation, that most parents, when faced with the derailment of their perfect image, would gladly abandon it to protect their children, as he had…

Her soup was cold and the cafeteria was clearing out. She had three minutes left of her lunch break. Hermione sighed. Whenever she got to thinking about this her appetite disappeared. It was worse when she thought about his crimes. What had been done to him was bad, but the hate he must have felt when he, too, became sick, when he could not stop himself from doing it to others, sweet Merlin…

She wished she could dive into his head and scramble things around. Technically, she could, but that meant being close to him – being subject to his wrath. And he could do the same to her, though he wouldn't churn up anything interesting. Her life had been mercifully mundane; being tortured by Bellatrix LeStrange and seeing some of her favorite people die in the war were as far as her trauma went. Yes, those things were pretty bad, but she had gotten the proper treatment and she had been old enough to understand _why_. She had weathered that storm and come out mostly whole on the other side. He, on the other hand…he was a pretty high-rise built on a foundation of cheap sand filler, filler that would disintegrate into mud and topple him when the world shook.

And the tremors were beginning. The tremors, their name be Hermione Granger…and perhaps the kindest thing she _could_ do was to push him into a full-blown earthquake and reconstruct him on stronger ground…

But could she survive that? Could she live through the collapse? Because he would know – he would _know_ what she was doing and hate her for it and perhaps the pieces of him were too small to pick up, too badly damaged to rebuild…maybe he _couldn't_ be rebuilt. Maybe it would destroy him forever.

Perhaps that was what the books were about. Perhaps he was trying to get it all out and then he would let himself implode. His affairs were in order; his fortune was intact, his heir no longer in danger, his line assured…except for the telling of his story, Lucius Malfoy's work was done.

Oh, no. He was not going to get off that easily. She wouldn't let him. He still had a lot to atone for and so much squandered potential; he'd lived less than a third of his lifespan and she was not about to let him waste the rest. Hermione's eyes narrowed in determination. The next time she saw him she was going to drive a pillar into his cornerstone. Let him try to fall, then…

* * *

But as always he surprised her. When she trudged back down to her office, he was there. He filled the small room with his fickle aura and it seemed like there was barely enough room for both of them to exist inside.

"Lucius." She had become entirely comfortable with his name now in spite of the fact that he had still not referred to her as Hermione. He might never do that. But 'girl' or 'Miss Granger' were vastly preferable to what he used to call her. His eyes were on her as she detoured around him and sat in her chair.

He looked better. Yet he was not entirely himself. His face still spoke of exhaustion and was a bit more shadowed. He had lost weight; not much, five pounds at most, but she knew to look for it and therefore she could see it. Otherwise he looked his normal shade of impeccable.

He dropped into the visitor's chair and stared at her for a moment. Their connection was curiously quiet, or maybe it just seemed that way because the last time she'd been near him, his mind had been about as calm as a hurricane.

"Are you ready for your vacation?" he said, startling her out of her thoughts.

"What? What vacation?" Hermione chuckled. "I'd know if I had a vacation coming up."

"You do."

She looked at him more closely. Even through his tired expression, she could find a note of smugness.

"What did you do?" she asked slowly.

"You've been working far too hard," he responded, a smirk tugging his lips. "Everyone in the department is just delighted that you're taking a break."

"I'm not taking a break."

He gestured with his cane. "I suggest you look in that folder on your desk."

With a feeling of muted horror she opened the manila folder. It was a vacation request – two weeks, starting tomorrow – signed and dated and notarized.

"You forged my signature!" _You git!_

"Yes. It was quite effortless. You shouldn't leave important documents lying around." _All too easy for gits like me to appropriate them.__ Don't worry, I made sure it got where it needed to go afterwards._

She had no clue what to make of this. Was he trying to be nice? Was he trying to acknowledge the stress he'd put her under? Or was it something else?

"Lucius, I don't understand."

"It's simple." He closed his mouth and raised his eyes to her. They were a little frightening in their sincerity. _The universe is either punishing me or rewarding me. It has made you my muse. I can't accomplish anything without you. You are my Calliope._

Hermione was stunned. This was all about him, as everything was. His muse? His Calliope? Was he out of his mind?

_Calliope is the muse of epic poetry. Last I checked you weren't writing an epic poem. _

_I like to think that the subject matter is epic and my writing could be considered close to poetry…humor me._

In spite of his wry tone, she frowned.

_It has nothing to do with me. _

_It has everything to do with you. I was stuck even before you came into the picture. The moment I met you, interacted with you, I was able to proceed. But in your absence…_

_You're wrong, Lucius. Writing isn't easy. There are writers who suffer blocks that last years._

There was a short pause.

_I haven't got years._

Hermione's breath caught.

"What…what do you mean, you haven't got years?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His eyes were skittish now, fixing everywhere but on her. "I have…acquired something…in my travels." He sighed heavily. "Wizards do not have a name for it yet. They thought we were immune. I usually like to prove people wrong, but not this time…"

"Lucius, what is it?" she asked, genuinely afraid of the answer.

"Just a little thing," he said softly. "A little thing the muggles call HIV."

Her brain stalled. It stalled fantastically. Hermione was very still. She couldn't believe what had come out of his mouth, and with so little hesitation! Perhaps she had imagined it? No. No…across from her, he was fidgeting patiently, hiding a great many emotions while he waited for her to come back to herself. She finally did with a tremendous intellectual jolt.

"How long? Are they sure? There are medications, pills. You can live decades!" She shook her head in wonder. "Magic folk really don't get it?"

He tempered her outburst with the same patience he had in her silence. "Since Azkaban – it was so kindly given to me there. Yes, they're sure. And until now, no, magic folk did not get it."

So kindly given? Did that mean…? Oh, she knew what went on in prisons! She wanted to bomb the place, to burn Azkaban into a pile of damp North Sea ash for what it had done to him. Again she wondered if he had considered suicide; if she was him, she would have ended her life at the earliest convenience. But she wasn't him. She was beginning to suspect that she might never plumb the full depths of his strength.

This explained an awful lot, namely why he hadn't been tossed right back into prison after the war. She would bet her Christmas bonus that he had somehow made it so that _they_ were paying _him_ to keep it quiet. She could just imagine the wardens of Azkaban having to explain what HIV was and how one got it to the greater wizarding public. It would be a great embarrassment to reveal that a very significant outbreak of a disease that was formerly relegated only to muggles had begun in their domain. Add that to the fact that they had allowed it to happen to a member of high society and it was a recipe for disaster. In spite of his incarceration and affiliation with the Dark Lord, opinions of Lucius Malfoy still ran high for reasons she couldn't quite understand. She supposed he was very good at damage control.

It accounted for the changes in him, too. He was still arrogant, yes, and definitely had not abandoned his greater persona, but there was a calm to him that had never been there before. He didn't spout those pureblood prejudices. He cared less for his image. He didn't waste his energy on such trifling things anymore.

It also explained why he wrote the first book and why he so badly wanted to finish the second. It was the second half of his life, which he sensed was running out. She had wondered why he had not simply snuck up on her and obliviated her, choosing instead to lock her into the Vow. She realized now that he wanted _somebody_ to know. He wanted someone to understand, someone to talk to as he faced a lonely, secretive, drawn-out death…

_Do NOT look at me like that!_ His mind's voice snapped like a whip in her head, sharp and angry. Hermione jumped and met his smoldering eyes. Oh. Oh, she was pitying him. Shit. She tried to quench the thoughts, to wipe the expression from her face, but it wasn't working.

_Azkaban may have been the best thing that ever happened to me, because I can finally see through the fog of rage and prejudice…I can finally see my own hypocrisy. Now I am the mudblood…_

"There," he said. "There, do you see? Just sitting here with you…"

She was still stuck on his confession. "You're not a…" but she couldn't force that hateful word out, so she changed paths. "How are they treating it?"

"Muggle drugs. There are no magical treatments yet."

"Is it working?"

He shrugged. "I'm still here. The…other one is already dead. It was aggressive. Treatments didn't work. Though he did not have the money or the healers that I do, and presumably, he had it longer."

"There's no one else?"

"There may be. They're in the process of checking. I know that _I_ did not pass it on…"

Hermione tried to breathe evenly. It was difficult. Her emotions were not entirely solidified and they reeled through her mind like half-formed fireballs. This was unreal. Her inner Gryffindor sprang to life, roaring with the will to fight. "Those…those pills work. Some people have lived twenty years or more on them. Like you said, you have the money, so you can just keep taking them. And witches and wizards have cured almost everything else. They'll find a way. You're not going to die," she said firmly, wanting to believe it.

_No_, his mind said. _No, I am tired of fighting. When I finish the book I am going off the drugs._

_Lucius…_

_I have made up my mind._

_It will be long and drawn out and painful._ As if physical pain held any sway over him…

_I know. It is no less than I deserve._

His words, so calm and sure, hit her like a sucker-punch. She recognized the feeling that was boiling up inside her. It was her inner heroine clawing to the surface, having scented someone that needed saving…

_You want to go before you've even had a chance to live? You want to go before you see your son get married, before you see your grandchildren?_

He was quiet and his fingers toyed with the hem of his robe. She thought she might have gotten through to him, made him reconsider, but she was wrong. For a moment later he stood up and said,

"They are better off without me." He smiled ruefully. "Pack your bags, mademoiselle. Tomorrow we are off."

* * *

Author's Note 2.0: Don't hate me. I know, I'm giving poor Lucius a tough go of it. One could argue, though, that this is karma coming back around on him for his misdeeds. Again I say…assume nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione stood in her bedroom, frozen. She had drifted through the rest of her day at the Ministry with the attention span of a gnat. Lucius was occupying the greater part of her mind. She was still numb with disbelief. First the revelation of the book and now this? Now he was fighting one of the deadliest _muggle_ diseases in the world. It was karma, classically and cruelly karma.

Hermione sighed and blew a strand of hair out of her face. She knew he deserved it. Internally she knew. He was not a good man. He had never been good, not since that moment when he eschewed it for what it had done to him. Even in this strange vulnerability he was not good; he was only trying to expel his personal demons, not expiate what they had done. All of it was selfish. But what excruciating, masochistic selfishness…

If there was a shred of decency to be had in him she wanted to find it. She _needed_ to find it. Never had she met someone who had been so terrifically failed by the circumstances of his life, or someone so trapped by what he had been born into. The fact remained that he could have done _something_, but…the past was the past and with this situation in her lap, she couldn't afford to pay too much attention to it.

She could not believe she was going to do this. Who the hell was she and what had she done with sensible Hermione Granger? That girl was nowhere to be found as she began to pack. She had no idea where Lucius would take her – that cottage? Who knew, he probably had ten of them scattered through Europe. Mother of Merlin, was she really seriously considering spending two weeks _alone_ with Lucius Malfoy?

Damn it. She couldn't say no to a dying man. She couldn't be that unkind. All he wanted to do was finish the stupid book and then die – and not peacefully. She had seen it in his eyes, felt it in his voice; he fully intended to languish in every agonizing moment the disease took to kill him. Perhaps _that_ was his expiation.

She shook her head. It would have to come out. He could not suddenly begin to waste away in front of his wife and son. He would have to tell them. Or perhaps he intended not to go back to them; he might think a mysterious disappearance was preferable to them finding out and watching him die.

Three months ago, before this all began, she would not have batted an eye at the news that he was suffering. For the greater part of their forced bond, he had driven her insane with anger, fear, and worry. But the things she saw in his head, the words he spoke to her – words he wouldn't speak to anyone else, and for once that was a compliment – and the bitter truth of his book made up for it all. He had stolen his way into her heart from under her skin.

_My muse…_

Hermione exhaled shakily. Perhaps she had done the same to him…and the prospect was daunting. His disdain she could handle, his irritation, his grudging confidence, even his unwieldy friendship, but his…love?

What understanding did he have of love? His father had been a cold imperious man, more a general than a parent. And his mother…she had, perhaps, loved him, but his trust had been forever shattered when she refused to hear his pleas for help. That was all he had; no siblings, no other family that she knew of. And his marriage, well, she was almost certain that it had been arranged. There were only so many purebloods that he was not already related to. He had not fallen in love with Narcissa and as such had not married her for it. Time had made him feel something, though. Draco…he _loved_ Draco, and fiercely, but he didn't know how to express it.

She was ridiculous. He could not love her. That was impossible. Still, she always had to fight the urge to attempt the impossible. She was wired for a challenge. Lucius was insurmountable, though. Even she had to recognize that this was a mountain she couldn't scale.

Oh, but she wanted to scale him…

_Shut up, Hermione. It can't be done. He's sick. He can't…_

But she knew he could, even if he didn't. People got HIV and went on with their lives. People told their partners and if they agreed on it, still slept together. They just used protection; however, witches and wizards did not usually use anything and most considered the muggle techniques barbaric (if they were even aware of them). Sexually transmitted diseases were almost unheard of in the magical community and a good contraception charm or potion precluded the need for a barrier. She could still remember Luna's absolute bewilderment when Dean, taught sensibly by his muggle father, had attempted to use a condom during one of their first encounters. Luna was outrageous at the best of times, but her endless speculation about that silly piece of latex had driven both Dean and Hermione up the wall. She was surprised that Dean had not broken up with Luna straightaway when she accused him of skinning baby puffertoots for his 'strange penis glove'. A smile flitted across Hermione's face. She missed Luna terribly at times.

Her smile faded a moment later when the reality of what she was going to do hit home. Lucius wanted her. She had seen that well enough in his dreams and the knowledge of his desire was intensely pleasing and frightening at the same time. Of all the men whose attentions it might be better _not_ to attract…

This was a precarious situation, indeed. Hermione got the feeling that he had been abstaining for a long time now; he didn't want to pass the disease on and she was curiously proud of him for that. But two weeks alone with a young, beautiful (yes, she could bolster her ego a bit), _forbidden_ woman might prove too great a temptation – for both of them. She wasn't blameless in it; she would never forget how it had felt to share the same space as him, to have him pour his powerful sexuality onto her. She squirmed even now when she thought about his tongue and his warm breath and his...ooh. The animalistic part of her recognized what he could do and wanted him to do it. So…this entire trip was uncharted territory and they were a mismatched Lewis and Clark.

Again, she was being ridiculous. He was not going to sleep with her. This was not about sex. It was about finishing his book in the most expedient way possible, and that meant essentially kidnapping her and letting her do her muse-ly thing. In spite of herself she smiled; she had never been anyone's muse before. It was kind of flattering.

She pretended that she wasn't packing a few of her racier boudoir items. One never knew. It was good to be prepared for any situation…

A pair of black lacy knickers slipped from her hand. Oh, what was wrong with her? She _had_ a boyfriend and here she was packing for a trip with another man, a man she knew was attracted to her and vice versa. A man she couldn't begin to predict. A man who was still dangerous…

_But_, the voice in her mind growled, _Ron hasn't come to see you in three weeks. Every time he leaves for auror training he is gone longer. You can't talk to him. You have to dumb yourself down for him. And all you do when he is here is have sex. Mediocre sex. _

And what would she do with Lucius? She had no idea, but on the (very slight) chance that she did end up in bed with him she knew it would _not_ be mediocre sex. Lucius Malfoy did not do mediocrity. There was no question that he'd comprehend her; he was one of the few people in the world that might be smarter than her. Might be.

Resolutely she picked up the indecent knickers and tossed them in the bag. Ron…well, she would worry about Ron later. However strangely the situation had come about and however much she shouldn't care, Lucius needed her. And what better way was there to completely turn him around…than to show him just how strong and amazing and _worthy_ a muggleborn could be?

Yes. Yes, this mission was two-fold: to help him finish his book, and to chip away at the last of his prejudices. By the time she was done with him, he wouldn't hate muggles and muggleborns anymore. Or at the very least…he would not hate all of them for what one had done.

* * *

So there she was, meeting him in the tea shop. Anna the counter girl smiled when Hermione walked in. Lucius was at that same table by the window. She noticed for the first time that it had an ink stain in the wood – a relic of him and his toil that would stay until they replaced their tables.

"Looks like you two finally found one another," Anna said as Hermione approached the counter. The tea here was good; she was going to need a cup to steady her nerves.

_Were you spying on me?_ Lucius's voice washed over her, coyly amused.

_Of course. Would you expect anything less?_

_No, I wouldn't._ He stood and moved towards the counter.

"A cup of Earl Grey for me, and…" he paused, digging slightly and plucking her preference from her mind, "Darjeeling for the lady."

She retaliated, pushing through his defenses to find his favorite sweet. "And two black and white cookies," she added. Of course he would like those. She could swear that he was fighting a smile as he paid. The man of manners and secrets reared his head again.

She sat across from him and observed that he ate the dark side first, and she the light. He took his tea with a dash of sugar and milk; she liked a lot of sugar and lemon. Even in these little things they were so different. But so far…so far he was being downright pleasant.

"So," she said, brushing a crumb from her shirt, "where exactly are we going?"

"Not one for surprises?"

_Not when you're involved._

His eyebrows went up. Hermione flinched. She hadn't meant to hurl that out into their psychic space. It was difficult to moderate her stream of consciousness sometimes.

_Can you blame me?_ she hurried to recover. _There have been so many already, I'm not sure my heart could take it._

_It is no one's fault but your own, _he taunted. _If you had not been so nosy you would never have been pulled into this._

_If you had not been so suspicious, I wouldn't have been compelled to be so nosy!_

_Miss Granger, three months ago I could have breathed the wrong way and you would think it was suspicious._

_It is no one's fault but your own,_ she shot back, throwing his words at him._ You didn't give me much else to work with._

"Drink your tea," he said sorely.

After a moment Anna spoke up. "So, Mr. M, how is the book going?"

A shade of something devious stole into his eyes. "Quite well, thank you. I've been meaning to ask you, Anna…what's a synonym for _annoying_?" He looked straight at Hermione when he said it.

She put down her cup of tea and gave him a dirty look.

"Bothersome," Anna supplied. "Irritating. Aggravating, exasperating, vexing. Irksome…"

Hermione kicked him under the table. And she did not kick lightly. He barely winced, for a gloating smile overtook his face.

"Irksome will do. Much appreciated."

* * *

In the end she didn't press him. He allayed her nerves when he looked back at her as they exited the tea shop.

"You know I would not take you anywhere unsavory," he said, holding the door for her. _Because I would not take myself anywhere unsavory._

Hermione rolled her eyes. She knew, though, that this was his way of trying to reassure her. The fact that he couldn't do it outside the realm of himself would take a lot of work to change, if it could be changed at all. He was fundamentally self-centered, but that seemed to be a plague of men everywhere.

He led her into a narrow alleyway that deposited them behind the tea shop. He swept the area with a critical glance, and, apparently satisfied, held his hand out to her. Hermione hesitated; a thought had just popped into her head.

"What is your wife going to think?" she asked. "Going off with some girl half your age won't look good."

"Less than half," he corrected. "And do not worry about my wife."

Hermione looked at him analytically. She searched his face, his posture, his eyes, his mind; all were quiet, schooled, perfectly innocuous. Either he was hiding something or he genuinely did not care what his wife thought. Well, if he wanted to play that way, who was she to stop him? She had already mentally shelved Ron and didn't feel nearly as bad about it as she should.

"If you say so," she shrugged, and took his hand. It was large and warm and sure, and she did not doubt its strength…only its intent.

* * *

It was dark. Hermione sneezed. Dark and dusty, apparently.

"Ugh," he said next to her. "Lumos."

A pool of soft light illuminated the room. It was large and cavernous, the ceiling towering high above, and the great space swallowed the light. All she could see was a painted wall. It was a warm marigold color, but faded so that it did not overwhelm the eyes.

He moved. She stayed still as the sphere of his light moved away. He knew where he was going. A moment later she had to close her eyes against the blinding intrusion of the sun. When her eyes adjusted, she could make out the shape of him standing near a tremendous open window.

"What a state this place is in…" he murmured to himself.

She paid him no mind. She was riveted by what she saw outside the window. Hermione moved as if possessed, and in a few shuffling steps she was standing next to him.

The windows had to be eight feet high, and unfettered they spilled one of the most beautiful images she had ever seen. Land rolled out beneath them in squares of green, red, and gold. There was a giant field of sunflowers to the right, raising their swaying black faces to the sun. The sky was blue and boundless, inhabited by the occasional perfect cloud and an opaque sliver of daytime moon. The air was fragrant with sweet summer grass. Not like the damp earthy terror of his dreams; this…this smelled heavenly.

"Where…?" was all she managed.

"Tuscany," he replied. "One of my family's vacation homes. It hasn't been used in a long, long time. We came here when I was very young…seven or eight…"

Hermione tore her gaze from the countryside and settled on him. He was looking out at the sprawling fields, his quicksilver eyes devouring the scenery. Under her scrutiny he straightened up. As he did, his hand bumped something on the windowsill.

He picked up the circular object. It was caked in dust and grime; she couldn't say what it was underneath. With an indefinable expression, he wiped a hand across the surface. It surprised her; she would have expected him to use a spell or at the very least, a handkerchief. He didn't even seem to notice the dirt on his hand.

A reflective surface met her curious stare.

_A mirror?_

He nodded. _I had a friend. Down there…_ here he pointed to a cluster of houses to the northeast. _My father did not like me associating with muggles._

Hermione understood. _So you used the mirror to signal?_

Lucius nodded again. After a moment: _I was a silly child._ The statement was full of a strange resignation.

She took the mirror from him and finished cleaning it. _You weren't silly._ She leaned a little ways out the window, mindful of the fact that though it wasn't a long way down, it would still be painful and embarrassing if she fell. Holding up the mirror, she tried to catch the sun.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

"It's been almost forty years, Miss Granger. I should hope that the boy is not still living in the same place he was born."

She turned to him. "You still live in the same place you were born."

"It is an ancestral home, not a common cottage. It would be foolish to live anywhere else."

"Would it?" she asked. He frowned at her. She ignored him and turned back, lifting the mirror into the sun's warm rays and finding the perfect angle.

_You're a sentimental thing, aren't you._

"Not sentimental," she answered, a smile tugging at her lips. "Just…I've never been to Tuscany."

* * *

She spent the rest of the day cleaning with him. She didn't mind it; a gentle breeze flowed in through the tall windows and birds were chirping and it was simply perfect outside. She hummed to herself. His mouth and his mind were quiet. So quiet, in fact, that she lost track of where he was.

And that was how he scared the living daylights out of her twenty minutes later, placing something on her shoulder. Hermione screamed, caught completely off guard, and tried to dislodge whatever it was. It stuck hard and fast and she felt tiny frissons of pain as claws met her skin.

"What _is_ it?!" she cried, going still. "What is it, what is it, what did you put on me?" The reaction was a holdover from elementary school, when boys would play tricks on her. A favorite had been putting bugs into her massive hair…

"Control yourself," he chuckled. "Or you will scare him."

"Him?" Cautiously, Hermione lifted a hand to touch the small bundle that was clutching her shirt for dear life. It was warm and furry. It mewled at her touch and slowly its claws unlocked. "Oh," she cooed, shifting the now-cooperative kitten into her arms. "Oh, he's precious."

Lucius was already striding away to the next room.

_Lucius__?_

He didn't answer for long seconds. But then,

_He was in the courtyard._

She blinked. _There's a courtyard?_

"The linens, I'm afraid," he said a moment later, right behind her, making her jump, "are quite beyond repair. We will need to go into town and purchase new ones."

"And some food," she added, once she had recovered from her second shock in as many minutes.

"Yes," he said absently, "food." His tone said that he didn't give a whit about food. He then busied himself clearing off a massive wooden desk that had been overtaken by dust that might have been a quarter of an inch thick. She recognized the look of a man claiming his territory; this was where he would try to do his writing.

Hermione stroked the kitten, smiling at its contentment as it lounged against her chest. It was a striped orange cat, like Crookshanks, but lacked the smushed-in face and pudgy build. This little thing was svelte and unbearably cute.

"What should we call him?"

Lucius shook his head in response.

"Come on. What would you call him?"

"Naming it means you intend to keep it. I, for one, would be perfectly happy to eject it back out into the courtyard."

"You're being mean on purpose."

Lucius snorted. "It is a feral cat. It was doing fine before we arrived and would continue to do so if we let it be."

She looked at him incredulously. "You're the one who brought him in!"

Her enigmatic companion pursed his lips, but said nothing. She sighed. He was impossible at times. She was about to tell him so, consequences be damned, when something caught her eye. A glint – a glint in the setting sun.

"Lucius! Lucius, look!"

He turned slowly, his face full of bored vexation. That expression melted away when he took in what she was pointing at. Across the rolling plain, something shiny caught the fading sunlight, directing a pink flash in through their window. It undulated and winked with a clear intention.

"He's still there!" Hermione felt overjoyed for a reason she couldn't quite identify. "Answer back, Lucius!"

"What is the point?"

"What's the _point_?" she sputtered. "The point is… the point is…" Truthfully she had no idea what the point was, but that was irrelevant. "Ooh! If you won't, then I will." She set the kitten on the wide windowsill and picked up the mirror. "What were your signals?"

He didn't answer. She turned, not comprehending his reluctance.

"It's harmless."

"It's pointless," he repeated.

She stared at him. He did not stare back.

_You can do this._

His attention snapped to her now, eyes blazing, and she knew the scathing look was because he thought _she_ thought he was afraid. _ I do not have time to retrace the follies of the past, _he growled.

"I don't care," she responded flippantly. "I'm going to signal him anyway."

They stood in a stalemate that was tense and unreadable. At last he exhaled and rolled his tricky eyes.

_One flash was no. Two were yes. Three asked if it was safe to come over. There was more, but I won't overload your slim powers of comprehension._

Hermione smiled. He was a sore loser. So what if he wouldn't do it himself? He wouldn't stop _her_ from retracing his childhood follies. Frankly, she was glad he'd had them – it made him human. She lifted the mirror.

_You think I wouldn't?_

_Wouldn't what?_

_Stop you._ And suddenly his hands were on her from behind, one across her ribs and the other cupped high on her neck, beneath her chin. With a pull of his muscles her back hit his chest. Her body vibrated like it never had before, thrumming powerfully in the wake of contact. Was it the Vow? No, even before that he'd made her weak…

His index finger was resting gently against the corner of her mouth. With a calculating tenderness, he drew that digit across her bottom lip, barely touching. It scorched the sensitive skin, sent an electric current through her. In that one sweep she felt her nipples tighten beneath her shirt, felt her abdomen clench. She wanted to take that haughty finger between her lips and suck on it. Hermione shivered, unconsciously tilting her neck and making it available to him.

She felt a slight flex of his hand against her rib cage, as if it itched to stray higher. She clamped down on her thoughts, willing them not to betray how much she wanted that. His lips settled on the place where her neck met her shoulder, once, relaxed, not a kiss, and two warm breaths tickled her. And then he released her.

His absence was acute this time. She was almost crippled, reduced by the swiftness of his advance and how quickly and unpredictably he could turn into that bold seducer. No one should be able to make her want to rip off her clothes and shag them senseless in less than five seconds! Especially not him; he was perilous in more ways than one. But with a single little gesture…

He was already out of the house. She could see him striding down the drive, blasting overgrown plants into submission as he went. Was she supposed to go with him? Was she not? She had no idea. She didn't know if she could take thirteen more days of this. This had been a mistake, but she'd already made it and there was no going back. He wouldn't let her go back. Swallowing, Hermione reached out for the shutters. The kitten looked at her with luminous green eyes.

"In or out, little fellow," she said, her voice a bit unsteady. After a moment's contemplation, the kitten made his choice. He jumped out onto the ground. She smiled weakly. He was a wild thing after all, like Lucius said…


	7. Chapter 7

It was a defense mechanism.

Hermione reasoned it out as she walked down the path after him. As much as she wanted to believe that Lucius was genuinely attracted to her, it was simply too fanciful. Not even five years ago he would have killed her if given the chance. No, that wasn't true. He had been given the chance and was instead content to hand her off to Greyback, and perhaps that was worse; she had not even been worth the mess and the bother.

Oh, heavens, listen to her, taking offense that he hadn't slit her throat. She should be thankful for it. It didn't exactly qualify as generosity but with him she would take what she could get; a little self-control went a long way for Lucius Malfoy.

But back to her original train of thought. These advances he made – it was a defense mechanism. He used it when he felt that he was losing control, and if there was one way he could regain it, especially with a woman as a foe, it was through sexuality. One would have to be made of stone to be immune to it. He was an attractive man and there was that something about him. The word was magnetism, but it was something darker and more primeval…she couldn't even define it.

So when she challenged his control, he lashed out to regain it – by making her weak in the knees, by overriding her brain in favor of her body. And damn it, it worked. She frowned. She couldn't let him continue to use it against her. She wasn't a pushover and she wouldn't be sucked into his bedroom mind games. Oh, that was a poor choice of words…

She was catching up. His pace had slowed slightly and he seemed almost to be waiting for her, although she couldn't hear anything from his mind. He had become proficient at sheltering it, something she had yet to do. Things were still squeaking by when she didn't want them to, although she had managed to control that screaming desire for him to touch her not so long ago. Hermione sighed.

What she was about to do could go one of two ways. Either it would work and he would back off, or it would only make him more determined to get into her knickers whether he actually wanted to or not. She didn't know him well enough to say which it would be.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she drew even with him. He glanced at her briefly and then returned his eyes to the road ahead of them. It was gravel and dirt, criss-crossed with tire tracks and a footprint here and there. It was probably a nightmare in the rain.

Gathering her courage, Hermione spoke.

"I know what you're doing, Lucius."

Another sideways glance – one that dared her to go on.

"I won't fall for it," she said, willing herself to be stronger than she felt. "I won't let you manipulate me. If you lay a hand on me again for anything other than side-along apparition, I will leave and not come back."

He stopped. Stopped dead in the middle of the road, the faint cloud of dust their walking stirred swirling about his ankles. And she waited for his retort, for a thinly-veiled threat, for _something_ that would tell her what he was thinking. Only silence met her declaration. Hermione walked on, chewing her lower lip, nervous. She had no idea where she was going on the road but movement seemed like the best idea.

After a few minutes, she looked behind her. It was foolish to turn her back on him; he was a better version of himself but that still wasn't saying much and she didn't put it past him to hex her when she wasn't looking. The thought hadn't crossed his mind, though. He was walking slowly, hands in his pockets, eyes down. Oh dear. He was thinking.

Her stomach suddenly felt unsettled; this was, perhaps, the most dangerous reaction he could have had. A quick, venomous response would have been hurtful but precluded him putting too much thought into her little speech. Apology and acquiescence was more or less out of the question because he would never make them; she had known that before she opened her mouth. She had so hoped that his temper and his old habits would get the best of him, but his temper had flagged in the face of reality – he didn't have _time_ for anger and he'd wasted so much on it already – and perhaps he had been more successful at killing those old habits than she thought possible. It should have been a positive thing, him defeating those ingrained patterns of behavior, but in this case it might prove to be her undoing.

This was what fate had thrown at her – a halved man, one who, fifty percent of the time, was calm, calculating, reasonable. That would be fine if not for the fact that his reason existed free of morality; most Slytherins were the same. Reason came first and conscience second, and only if they chose to apply it. Sometimes morals were so inconvenient…

And the other fifty percent of the time? Well, though she had barely seen it yet, she suspected that he was a fine mess. Most would be in his position. He was dying and no one took that news particularly well, especially when it was before their time. Add to that the knowledge of what he was dying from and how desperately, sadistically appropriate it was…and you had the recipe for a train wreck, pure and simple. He was human (the visceral shock of that still resounded in her head) and so he inched toward it inexorably, no matter how hard he pulled on the emergency brake. So far it had only come out in his dreams; she had felt the guilt, tasted his anger, his despair, and experienced his terrifying and paradoxical reactions to everything dark inside and around him. Before the end he would meet that point on the horizon where he ran out of track.

Was she wrong to think that the synthesis of the two could save him? Only when one intruded on the other could he begin to make sense of it all. When guilt fractured rationality, when rage clashed with tenuous composure, when he allowed himself to feel the fear of what he had become instead of suffocating it with the clutching fingers of his control…

But right now he was warily holding those two halves away from each other, like one had to keep fire away from gunpowder, with a grim knowledge of what would happen if he relaxed for even one moment. So he knew the potential for a breakdown existed. He could smell it, a trace of heat on the wind. She had a feeling he would do anything to avoid it.

It was exactly what he needed.

She was back where she had begun in the Ministry cafeteria, contemplating the earthquake that would tear him down. It was so hazardous to both of them. There was no safe way to go about it. Perhaps…perhaps, given time, the plates within him would clamor into one another and break? No. If it hadn't happened by now, he was too much an expert at calming the tremors.

"Unless you plan on walking to Siena, you will need to come this way," his voice sounded suddenly, behind her and to the right. Hermione blinked and stopped, turning toward him. The road had come to a fork and without realizing, her feet had carried her left. He stood in the middle of the split, contemplating her. To the right she could see the small town, the first lights beginning to flicker on as the sun sank lower.

"Maybe it's worth visiting," she said, suddenly not wanting to be in his presence.

"Maybe," he agreed quietly. "But it is a long walk."

* * *

Once inside the small town Hermione forgot her agitation. Everything was so charming; she couldn't fix her eyes in enough places at once. Though the sun was edging down, the small marketplace was buzzing with people. Stalls full of fresh produce assembled in bright swatches before her and she wanted to touch and taste everything. She had never seen tomatoes so red, peppers so green, or bulbs of garlic so large. It occurred to her that she had not brought any money, not that galleons would do her any good…

"I have Euros," he said, answering her thought. "If you want anything, ask and it is yours."

"I have money," she replied automatically.

"Not with you."

She frowned. Damn him and his Vow. Another thought flickered through her mind and she gave voice to this one. "You're not expecting me to cook, are you?"

This earned a turn of his head and a brief look. "No." A ghost of a smile crossed his face and disappeared as quickly as it had come. "I take it from your tone of voice that it is not your favorite thing to do."

"I'm not particularly good at it," she admitted. "Sometimes _I_ don't even want to eat my own cooking."

"A bit strange, isn't it, that you can brew Polyjuice but simple cooking eludes you?" he jabbed.

"Can _you_ cook?" she demanded, her hands going to her hips of their own accord. She wasn't going to think about how he knew she could brew Polyjuice.

"I have never tried," he informed her, "but if I did, I'm certain I could do it."

He was probably right. Truthfully, if she approached cooking the way she did an academic subject like potions, she would probably be brilliant at it. She had just never had the time.

"This is a food market," she said, changing subjects. "Where are we supposed to get linens?"

"There are shops." He lifted his chin to indicate the small storefronts on the left. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a money clip that could barely contain the bills it enclosed. She tried not to look at it and guess just how much money he was holding but it was impossible. Depending what denominations made up the majority of it, it could be anywhere from a few hundred to thousands, and if she knew him it was thousands. She had never had so much money, galleons or muggle, in her hand at one time. He was counting out bills – one, two, three, four – and she realized he meant to give it to her.

"I told you I have money. I don't want yours."

"I dragged you out here. I don't intend to let you spend the meager funds you've made at the Ministry when it would not have been your choice to leave in the first place."

The talk of money jarred something in her brain. Oh, shit. She had forgotten to pay her rent before leaving. The first of the month was not for a few more days, so she supposed she could apparate back and take care of it.

_It is paid._

She started slightly. It had been a good hour since his voice sounded inside her skull and already she missed the silence. Wait a minute, had he just…

_What do you mean?_

_Your rent.__ It is paid for the next year. I was going to let you find out on your own, but since it is troubling you…_

Hermione could only gape at him. He had paid her rent? For a _year_?That was close to ten thousand galleons! What did he mean by it? Was he capable of generosity or was he just taking the chance to wave his money in her face? A spark of something indignant lit in her chest.

_I'm not poor. I can afford my own flat. I don't need your money._

He sighed, irritation tingeing his next words. _It is the only thing I can give you in return for what you are doing. I have nothing else that you would want._

She stared at him, unsure of his exact meaning and thrown by his apparent recognition that he was indebted to her. It was so out of character. She wanted to tell him that some favors didn't require reciprocation but he wouldn't be able to grasp that. Everything was a transaction in his world. His eyes, so like the Tuscan sky, were clear but guarded as he waited for her to gather her wits.

"Luciano?"

They both turned. A man of average height with dark, curly hair streaked with grey stood there, a hesitant look on his face. It was the look people usually wore when they thought they recognized someone but weren't entirely sure.

Luciano? It was close. Hermione looked at Lucius. His brows furrowed. She heard his mind search and seize - _What was his name…Paolo? Yes._ This was his muggle friend! Hermione braced herself.

"Paolo?" he responded tentatively.

The other man smiled. "It is you! I saw you across the square, and I thought, there is only one man I ever knew with hair like that." His words were slightly accented but his English was perfect. "It looks like you have escaped the grey."

"For now," Lucius said temperately. She recognized his mask of indifference; she had come to know it well already. It was the expression he wore when he had not quite figured out what the situation called for.

"Then it is you, up in the old villa?"

He nodded.

"I couldn't believe it when I saw the mirror flashes. I thought I was going crazy. Oh, but where are my manners? Who is this lovely lady? Your daughter?"

Hermione had to exercise supreme self-control to negate the grimace that wanted to spread across her face. If there was a mental equivalent of a grimace, Lucius was experiencing it and it was mirrored in her own mind. They had not considered this; what exactly were they?

"No," Lucius said smoothly, as if this were not incredibly awkward. "This is Miss Granger, my associate."

Associate. She could deal with associate. Hermione took Paolo's outstretched hand and shook. Thankfully he did not feel the need to ask more questions about her identity; he seemed more interested in his old friend.

"I can't believe it's been almost forty years," the Italian reflected.

"Indeed," Lucius said. "Would you mind if I had a minute with Miss Granger?"

"Of course."

Lucius nodded and excused himself. Hermione didn't bother to point out that he could tell her whatever he wanted via their link; he obviously wanted to escape the muggle for a moment.

"Here," he said, pressing the money into her hand. "Go pick out whatever linens you like, two sets, something sensible--" _no flowers or butterflies,_ his mind slipped, "and please don't be parsimonious about it. Rubbish is still rubbish even if it's cheap."

Knowing that it would do no good to argue with him, she took the money. And knowing that it would annoy him to no end, she asked, _Will you be all right?_

_Of course I will be all right, silly twit!_

She turned around and smirked as she walked away. It was only when she got into the first shop that she bothered to look at the money she held. Sweet merciful mandrake root, he'd given her a thousand Euros! She shook her head. Even Egyptian cotton woven by Ramses himself wouldn't cost that much! Hermione smiled – and had absolutely no idea why.

* * *

She had purchased the linens nearly a half hour ago. Now she was just loitering in the window of one of the shops, carefully watching Lucius and Paolo. They were in the same spot she'd left them. Initially she had thought he would only be a few minutes but they had been talking for quite a while without ceasing. Of course Paolo did most of the talking; she smiled, sure that verbose people normally drove Lucius to insanity, but he was behaving very well. Better than she ever would have expected, in fact.

As she watched Lucius held up a hand and then turned around. His eyes swept the piazza; he was looking for her. Hermione suddenly became aware that the shopkeeper, an elderly woman, was standing next to her looking out at Lucius. She pointed a gnarled finger.

"Capelli di oro, occhi come il cielo, e un grande pacchetto." The woman waggled her grizzled eyebrows. "Farete molti bambini bei."

Hermione had no idea what the woman had just said, but had the feeling it might contain questionable content.

"I…I'm sorry, I don't understand," she smiled apologetically.

At that moment the bell over the door tinkled and Lucius came in, followed by Paolo. He must have noticed her in the shop window.

"Ah!" the old woman said, apparently recognizing Paolo. She descended into a garble of speech, gesturing at the curly-haired man. A smile broke out across his face. Paolo turned to Hermione.

"She is jealous that you get to spend time with Luciano. She thinks he is gorgeous."

"Grazie," Lucius said, his poker face giving way to the humor of the situation. "Paolo, tell her she is quite a looker herself."

Paolo obliged and it sent the old woman into a fit of giggles. She held out her hand and Lucius made a show of kissing it. Hermione couldn't help but laugh. He was in a very good mood, indeed; she hadn't thought it possible, not after her ultimatum on the road.

After a few more minutes and some outrageous flirting from the old woman, they managed to extract themselves mostly unmolested. They walked out into the darkened square; the vendors were packing up their stalls. At that moment her stomach growled, reminding her that it was late and she hadn't eaten since that morning.

"Paolo, is there anywhere we can eat? We don't have any food in the villa yet," Lucius said, echoing her thoughts.

"Oh yes, there is an excellent bistro around the corner, I will walk you there."

* * *

Once they arrived they said their goodbyes and settled at a table. The restaurant wasn't crowded but had enough people to fill it with a low murmur of speech.

"Before I forget," Hermione said, digging in her pocket, "here's your money."

"Keep it."

"No."

_I will charm it to incinerate if you reject it_, he warned.

_You wouldn't!_ she rejoined, horrified. She couldn't bear to see money wasted like that, and he knew it.

_I have enough to survive your obstinacy. And I will keep giving it to you until you break down and spend it._

She looked at him across the table, and then slowly re-pocketed the money. Clearly arguing with him would get her nowhere. If Malfoy wanted to throw away his money, who was she to stop him? A thought occurred to her.

_I doubt Draco would appreciate you showering me in his inheritance._

_His inheritance has been set aside since his birth. It is quite safe from my irresponsible expenditure. _

She frowned. That was the last line of her reasoning.

_I do not care what you use it for or if you use it at all._ His voice went quiet. _Toss it into some account and let it molder. But do not reject it._ He didn't go on, but she knew what he was trying to say – do not reject _me_. In spite of herself, she softened.

"All right," Hermione said. "What did you talk about with Paolo?"

Lucius rolled his eyes. "You mean what did Paolo talk to me about?"

She smiled. She had been right in her assumption that Lucius couldn't stand people who rambled. Perhaps she would have to ramble more often.

* * *

The road back up to the villa was dark. She really was in the country now; the only light was offered by the stars (there were so many outside the city!) and a faint sliver of moon. Lucius didn't seem bothered by it. His feet were sure and he moved uninterrupted by the ruts and rocks that troubled her.

She had only been to Malfoy Manor once, and under less than pleasant circumstances, but common sense dictated that it was far off the beaten path. He had probably spent the majority of his life traversing roads and darkened grounds like this. She, on the other hand, had only ever lived in a cluttered suburb or the city. Dirt roads were a novelty. And not a very nice one, either; she had a rock in her shoe and had nearly fallen twice.

He was moving a bit more slowly than he might have in her absence. He kept himself just ahead of her and the pale sheen of his hair was like a beacon in the dark. Lucius had thus far spared her his biting sarcasm for reasons unknown, but she knew by the way he shielded his mind with a sensation of cool amusement that he was certainly thinking of ways to mock her for her clumsiness.

Hermione made a face at his back and returned her gaze to the stars. It wasn't often that she got to see them like this, sprinkled across a sky free of light pollution. She could find the Plough, and there was Polaris, the north star…

In hindsight, looking up instead of at the ground in front of her was a mistake. Her foot hit a rut and she was going down; there was nothing she could do. Hermione winced and prepared herself for impact.

It never came. An invisible force halted her and she was suspended almost parallel to the ground, her nose two feet from the gravel, as if she were hanging in some kind of sling. Lucius's legs moved into view.

_I knew that was coming_, he chided, and none too kindly.

_And you did nothing about it. How nice,_ she shot back, instantly irritable.

_No. This is what would have happened if I did nothing about it._ He moved his wand slightly and the force that held her was gone; Hermione yelped, anticipating her rendezvous with the ground. Again, it didn't come. After freefalling for a terrifying second, her momentum stopped and she was eased to the dirt gently.

Lucius chuckled and moved on. The sound of his laughter, however benign, made the lion inside her wake from its sleep. With a vindictive flick of her wand, she sent a Tripping Hex at his receding feet.

_She did not just…!_ The thought escaped him as he went down and Hermione smiled spitefully. He hadn't expected her retaliation. Now he'd learned that as much as she let people push her, eventually she would push back. She didn't care who he was.

She should have, though. His temperance had lulled her into a false sense of security. She had vowed that it wouldn't happen, but already he'd managed to chip away at her guard. He was well acquainted with the dark and as such he moved seamlessly in it; before she knew it, he was too close for comfort.

She was still on her stomach in the dirt. She could scarcely believe it, but he was _on top_ of her – straddling her. He was careful; it didn't escape her notice that no part of him actually touched her. No, nothing but the threat of his presence and that maddening sensuality…

His hands came into her view, palm down in the gravel next to hers. Her hands looked small and doll-like in comparison. This was worse than being touched. He was on all fours above her, inches from her, and a very slight displacement of her hair told her that his lips were near her ear. Oh God, not that tongue again…

"Do not," he breathed, "take your incompetence out on me."

"Don't take _your_ twisted sense of humor out on _me_," she bit back, edgy in the knowledge that her warning had done little to blunt his behavior.

"I know what you're doing, Miss Granger."

She bit her lip, infuriated and terrified at the same time. He was throwing her own boldness right back at her and completely disregarding it at the same time.

"You think you can dissect me, girl? You think I am some insect on your pin?" His voice had become a low growl that peeled back her skin and resounded inside her. "I only need you for as long as it takes me to figure out how not to need you," he whispered harshly – and she wasn't completely sure if he was speaking out loud or in her head or both.

"I'm not--" she attempted.

He cut her off. "Don't lie. You are dreadful at it." As soon as his mood had come, it was gone, and the threat melted out of the air around them. "For Merlin's sake, next time you cannot see _light your bloody wand_."

He lifted himself carefully and stalked away.

* * *

She knew she was crazy for following him back and not just leaving him to his purgatory. She knew that. She actually stood outside the villa for a full fifteen minutes, debating with herself. She could leave. She could just flat-out leave. He had overstepped many boundaries on the road; he had embarrassed her, toyed with her, intimidated her, threatened her, and so much more. She _hated_ that he could excite her while simultaneously doing all those other things. In her gut, though, she knew that he would come after her if she left. And he wouldn't be happy about it; he didn't like it when he was denied his will. Besides, she was making progress with her mission. Lucius had played very nicely with his old muggle friend. Sighing heavily, Hermione walked into the villa with her head held high.

Once inside, the darkness did not abate; the villa had no electricity. It was an 1800 year old Roman construction, Lucius snootily informed her, so why would it? In all that time no one had deemed it necessary to modernize it. She supposed there was not much to be done; it had everything it needed otherwise.

As expected, there was no hint of an apology. It was hard to stay angry at him, though, when he set to the task of medicating himself. Once again she felt the weight of knowing that by allowing her to see this, he was wordlessly confessing. She had never seen so many pills in one place. If she were him, she would have confused herself and lost track, but he blew through the routine easily. With three years of practice he could probably do it in his sleep.

He knocked the pills back with wine; she guessed he had unearthed it from the massive wine cellar. She wondered if it was prudent to mix the medication and alcohol but didn't say anything, as it was only one small glass. She couldn't help but think about if anyone else had ever been privy to this ritual. He offered no answers. Hermione found that she had a sudden and completely voyeuristic urge to rifle through the pill bottles when he was asleep. She knew that HIV drug regimens were intense, but that had been a lot of pills; perhaps something more accounted for the moderation of his behavior.

Her lips twitched. The thought of Lucius Malfoy on Xanax or Valium was a strange one, indeed. Lord only knew what a muggle doctor would prescribe him, or, heaven forbid, a muggle psychiatrist…but she was jumping to conclusions. The man didn't even use Dreamless Sleep potion (she could attest), so why would he be any more enamored of muggle sedatives?

He settled into the large desk and lit another candle. In its soft bath, it seemed like he had almost forgotten she was there. He tooled with his quill, fidgeting, frowning as he contemplated the paper. At one point he rested the feather against his lips.

She had to admit, there was something about candlelight. He looked like a de La Tour painting. Any gallery would be glad to have him, with the light kissing his angles like only a candle's flickering warmth could…and his eyes, when they flashed up to hers for a brief second, were bluer than the center of the little flames.

The quill began to scratch. Hermione watched him, transfixed. His lips were moving as he wrote; the occasional shake of his head and slash of his quill as he crossed something out accompanied the silent murmurings. Her book sat in her lap unread. She had never observed a true writer at work before. She had ceded him that much in her mind; when he wanted to be, he was to words what a talented weaver was to tapestry.

Three pages later, he paused.

"Foolish," he said.

"What's foolish?" she asked, feeling very subdued and wondering if this would be an attempt at contrition.

"Another word for foolish."

Right, what was she thinking? In the absence of his favorite ebony-haired tea shop employee, now she was going to get the thesaurus treatment.

"Naïve," Hermione suggested, resigned.

"No."

"Imprudent?"

"No."

"Inexperienced."

"No."

"Ignorant."

And he didn't negate it, so she assumed he was happy with her substitution. After a few more minutes of quiet she stood up. Fatigue was beginning to hit her. Existing with him was a taxing job, it seemed.

The windows were wide and the air cool and perfect. A symphony of night sounds filtered in. She took a moment to contemplate the stars that had proved so dangerous before; they really were breathtaking. Sighing, Hermione lifted herself onto the broad windowsill and sat against the side of it. She had never been in a home that had windows big enough to allow this kind of seating arrangement. It was perfect; if she turned her head to the right, she could look at the sky and the dormant countryside, and if she turned left she could look at him – she could no longer pretend that that wasn't a joy in its own right.

Hermione let him be for long minutes, not wanting to obstruct his flow. But at last the question could no longer be controlled and she cast it into the nebulous space between them.

_If I leave, will you come and find me?_

The quill paused. Just like that, it froze mid-word, dripping a spot of ink onto the porous parchment. He turned his head, his pupils large in the dim light.

_Yes._

She nodded. She had expected that answer and he had probably expected the question. He might not expect this one, though…

_If I stay, will you hurt me?_

He put the quill down. A tremendous moment stretched, interrupted only by the sound of crickets and the jolting tickle of the curtains as the wind pushed the panel of fabric against her arm. The candle guttered slightly, genuflecting in the breeze.

_No. I will not hurt you._

It was said with confidence and surety and she could find no untruth in his eyes. But he was an expert liar; he could craft veracity and deception in shades of grey. Perhaps he had only told her what she wanted to hear. With a shaky exhalation, Hermione rose from the windowsill.

"Good night."

"Sleep well," he murmured, watching her in his peripheral vision.

But, as she settled into the tremendous bed in the room she had claimed, sleep was elusive game. She could feel him…_hear _him…as he wrote; a mantra cycled in his head, meditative in its repetition but frightening in its implications:

_I will not hurt her. I will not hurt her. I will not hurt her…_

* * *

Author's Note: Ten snuggle points to whomever figures out what the pervy old lady _really _said about Lucius.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Most of you were close. The old lady said (more or less): "Hair of gold, eyes like the sky, and a big package. You will make many beautiful children." I apologize for my atrocious Italian. Definitely not one of my better languages. Someone had asked if I've ever been to the places in Italy that I'm writing about - yes, I have, and I'm drawing heavily on that experience. :)

* * *

Apples again.

Hermione steeled herself. She really did not need this right now, not after the day he'd inflicted upon her, and not after the hours she spent lying in bed, her heart pounding as she listened to him trying to assemble his willpower. She wasn't sure when she'd finally dropped off, but he must have, also, and here she was, about to view another one of his sex dreams…

Reluctantly, she opened her dream-eyes. Relief flooded her; she was outside. There was no bed, no nude replica of herself, nothing remotely sexual. Thank Merlin. Hermione looked around, surprised. She was standing in a strip of road that ran between two fields. On the left there were sunflowers and on the right, a tremendous field of wheat swaying in a breeze that was barely there. Was this dream…here? Tuscany?

A further jolt startled her when she realized that this was in color. And she could hear the wheat rustling. Color and sound? Was this her own dream? No…it had started with that same ambiguous waft of smell, that signature olfactory hallucination that demarcated his dreams. It had never been a hallmark of hers. This was Lucius, through and through. It must be their proximity bringing things into sharper focus…

The wheat rustled ominously and a distortion rippled through the golden stalks. In spite of herself she took a step back. She knew it was just a dream, but it was hard to clamp down on her natural instincts. However, the things that burst out of the field a moment later were anything but threatening.

Four little boys emerged, peals of laughter echoing as they chased one another. Three were shrieking in Italian. One was not. Hermione's breath caught. Sweet Merlin, that was Lucius. And Lucius, at eight, was the most beautiful child she had ever seen.

His face was cherubic but held a hint of mischief; she could tell just by looking at him that he had been a handful. Those eyes were no different, except perhaps in their temperature. Children should not have cold eyes and she was glad to see that he didn't. His hair was the same pale sheet, a bit shorter, hanging only to his chin and messy from boyish exertion. He was perfect. She could only hope to have a child as beautiful as him someday.

She quickly determined that they couldn't see her. Oblivious, the boys rested on the road, attempting to call a truce for the chase, but it didn't last long. It was instigated again by a boy that could only have been Paolo; he had the same riotous brown curls and warm eyes. Hermione smiled even as her heart broke. Lucius was so happy with these children – children that were muggles and who didn't even speak English. It didn't matter. The language of play was universal.

Their stillness was short lived; in another minute they had regained their energy and took off toward the field of sunflowers. After a moment of thought, Hermione followed. She wanted to see as much of this carefree Lucius as she could. Perhaps it would help her to bear the thing he had become. Or perhaps it would make it worse…

The boys darted quickly among the high, thick stems of the sunflowers. The entire field was taller than her and it was spaced so that she could just squeeze through the slots between the sturdy flora. It was easy to keep her eyes on Lucius; he was the only one with light hair and the only one whose skin was not the color of café au lait.

They were playing tag. From what she could tell, Paolo was it. The boys hunted one another through the flowers, trying to trip each other, to push their opposition towards Paolo, who was good-naturedly seeking them. They were rapidly running out of field; Hermione could see the dirt road through the green stalks.

Two of the boys doubled back, changing course and plunging back into the depths of the field. Lucius was trapped between Paolo and the road. A fierce grin passed between the two boys as they stood still, measuring each other up.

"Andiamo, Luciano," Paolo teased. He took a step forward; Lucius countered him with a step back, the age-old cat and mouse.

"Troppo lento," boy Lucius said, taunting right back. Hermione smiled. _Too slow_. Lucius was not fluent, but clearly he'd learned what was important – how to bait his enemy. It worked.

Paolo charged at him and they careened out of the sunflower field with less than a foot between them. They were both laughing; it put a smile on her face as she pushed through the last of the plants and emerged on the road. The two boys were running in delirious curlicues, Lucius barely evading Paolo's outstretched hand.

Then Lucius stopped. It was eerily reminiscent of the way he'd pulled up short on the road the evening before, the air of his momentum stirring the dry dirt into a flurried cloud. It was so sudden that Paolo ran into him; the Italian boy fell backwards onto his rear-end and Lucius took one stumbling step forward from the impact.

She followed his eyes, which were suddenly fearful. That was when she got her first clear look at Abraxas Malfoy. That was the only person it could be. He had appeared in Lucius's dreams before but had always seemed a bit out of focus, and much older. Not so now.

He stood on the rise of the road, perhaps a hundred yards away, arrogant in dark robes in spite of the blistering sun. He didn't look the way she'd pictured him, not that she'd spent much time at that; his hair was brown, his skin a bit warmer than the usual English pallor, but those eyes – she could have transplanted them right into Lucius's skull. And the jaw, the nose, those, too, were things he'd given to his son. From the father came the angles, and from the mother, enough delicacy to mute the strong features into a distressingly attractive face.

"Luciano?" Paolo questioned as he stood up, cringing and rubbing his bottom where he had fallen. "Che cosa…?" He trailed off when he caught sight of Abraxas, who stood with his arms crossed, staring at the boys. Hermione could feel his malice from here.

"Padre," Lucius replied. A trapped look flashed in his eyes, but only for a moment. The blond boy took a breath, drew himself up, and turned briefly to Paolo. "Ciao." Then he was off at a jog, moving towards his father's imposing figure. She knew he was headed for a tongue lashing…or worse.

Her eyes were drawn to Paolo; the boy looked confused and he withered under the elder Malfoy's stare. His two friends erupted out of the field, both speaking at once, but they, too, fell silent as they noticed Abraxas. Lucius was close to his father now; the three boys stood in a wary line as Abraxas took a rough hold on Lucius's arm and jerked him the rest of the way. Lucius looked back, just once. Paolo took a step forward, but hadn't the courage for anything else.

Hermione didn't want to see what was going to happen, but she had to. She had to see if his father's muggle hating was all sound and fury, or if he had beaten it into his son. She crested the ridge that Abraxas had stood upon only moments before, just in time to see him cast the boy against a tall, gnarled cypress a little off the road.

"I recall telling you to stay away from those muggles," he growled as she drew nearer. She knew he couldn't see her, but once again her natural instincts were hard to quell, and she approached slowly and cautiously. "So why do I find you with them now?"

To his credit, or perhaps to his misfortune, Lucius looked up at his father and said, "I'm _bored_, father."

"If you are bored, make the house elf entertain you."

"I don't want to. Tibby smells funny."

Hermione bit the inside of her lip. Normal parents would have to choke down a smile at comments like that. Not Abraxas Malfoy.

"Then make your mother entertain you, spoiled child," he said coldly.

The boy's face darkened but he didn't say anything. Abraxas stepped closer and Lucius tried to sink further into the tree; it didn't work, as his back was already against the trunk.

"I will tell you again, Lucius. Muggles are dirty, useless creatures. They are not our equals. They are lower than house elves, lower than squibs, lower even than mudbloods. Do you understand what that means?"

"Yes, father."

"If they touch you, they will infect you with their weakness. Isn't that right?"

"Yes."

"Now," Abraxas said, taking hold of Lucius's jaw none too gently, "I want to be clear. If I catch you with those boys again, or if I even suspect that you are associating with them, you will suffer the consequences…and I will see fit to remove the temptation."

Hermione's eyes widened. Did he mean…? No, surely he just meant that he would send Lucius home, to a place where he knew he wouldn't be interacting with any muggles. He couldn't mean that he'd…

"In fact," Abraxas said, interrupting her thoughts, "perhaps it is better if I eliminate the source of your curiosity." He pulled his wand from his robe. Hermione fought the urge to attack him. It was a dream and nothing she did would matter. She couldn't save Lucius from something that had already happened.

Initially she had thought he meant to use the wand on his son, and from the look on his face, so did Lucius. But Abraxas released him and turned crisply, striding back toward the road. Holy hell, he _did_ mean to harm those muggle boys! Lucius realized it, too, and pulled away from the tree, fear stamped across his face.

"Father, no!" he yelled, running hard to catch up with the tall man. Hermione had to admire his courage when he latched onto the man's wand arm. Abraxas didn't expect the insubordination and that small surprise allowed Lucius to wrench the piece of wood from his father's hand. He fell backward onto the dirt road and a tremulous hand pointed the wand at his father.

"What do you plan to do with that, boy?" Abraxas thundered.

"Leave them alone!" Lucius cried. "I won't see them again. I won't talk to them. I won't even think about them!"

"Already they have inspired this insolence in you," he hissed. "Give me the wand, Lucius. You can't do anything with it." His words were strong, but his face was not so sure; Hermione, too, was slightly amazed that Lucius held the wand like a grown man and there was a tingle of magic in the air.

"Promise," the boy demanded. "Say you won't hurt them and I'll give it back."

"Promises are a fool's contract," Abraxas said.

"Then swear!" Lucius shouted, near tears.

"Very well. I swear I will not harm them. Now give me the wand."

Lucius breathed hard, one, two, three times – and then he threw the wand at his father, turned, and ran. He wasn't fast enough. Abraxas caught him by the hair and in one lightning-fast motion, turned him and backhanded him across the face. He didn't dilute his blow because he was hitting a child; she saw Lucius's neck snap with the force of it and he hit the ground as if he'd been thrown.

"Do not _ever_ do that again, Lucius, or you will be scrambling to save your own hide instead of some worthless muggle's." And with that, Abraxas Malfoy left his son lying dazed in the road.

Hermione hated him. She wanted to Crucio him. At the very least, though, he had been true to what he'd sworn. If he had really wanted to hurt Paolo and the other children, Lucius would have been powerless to stop him. No…she suspected that he had only threatened it to terrorize his son into compliance. He had gotten it, but he had also seen a flash of rebellion – and a flash of great strength.

Lucius sat up and touched his jaw gingerly. A small trail of blood had drawn a line down his chin. Incredibly, he did not seem upset. More…resigned. It told her that he had been hit like that before. Strangely, though, his book had not drawn the portrait of his father as a physically abusive man. Mentally, yes, that much was certain; Abraxas Malfoy was a bully and his son was a target, so any victory for Lucius, no matter how tiny or insignificant, was downright rapturous.

That explained why he was smiling now, digging at the packed dirt between his feet with a rock. A moment later he paused. Tentatively, Lucius transferred the rock into the palm of his right hand and held it out in front of him. He bit his lip and stared at the rock, concentrating hard. Hermione watched with baited breath; she knew what he was trying to do.

It happened a moment later. She felt the pulse of magic. The rock lifted up and away from his palm and hovered two inches above. His smile widened and he looked almost painfully happy. As the rock began to quiver, becoming less steady as his control deteriorated, Hermione heard a sound behind her.

She whirled. Oh, dear. Paolo was camouflaged among the tall grasses, staring directly at Lucius. Lucius was too enthralled with what was probably one of his first displays of magic to notice. He could hardly be blamed for it. There was no doubt, though, that Paolo had seen him do it. For all she knew, he could have witnessed the entire exchange.

Lucius's concentration broke a moment later and the rock fell to the ground. The pale-haired boy slumped over, drained. She remembered that feeling, when magic had been _so_ unbelievably difficult. She returned her glance to Paolo; the kid was stunned, confused, but mercifully he knew better than to reveal himself. He drew back into the grasses, and within a minute he was gone.

Hermione breathed. This was more memory than dream, it seemed, except she could see things differently from Lucius. Only that had enabled her to realize that Paolo had observed things he shouldn't have…and apparently, he'd kept quiet for forty years. He probably wrote it off as a dream or a crazed childhood fantasy. What child didn't want to believe that magic existed?

"Hey."

Hermione turned automatically toward the voice – eight-year-old Lucius's voice. She had assumed he was speaking to someone else, but there was no one in sight. She realized with a tremendous jolt that he was looking right at her. She wasn't invisible anymore.

"Who are you?" he asked warily as he rose to his feet. A blast of hot wind whipped his hair around his face, but his eyes never wavered.

"Nobody." Hermione struggled to pull away from the dream, to rip herself out of it, completely thrown by the fact that _he could see her_, and what the _hell_ did that mean, "No one. I'm--"

She flailed awake, heart pounding. Only her room greeted her, bathed in the pink light of dawn. The bleeding blond cherub was gone.

* * *

She was almost afraid to leave the room in the aftermath of the dream…memory…whatever it was. If he had seen her, did that mean he now knew what had been happening? Did he realize what he was transmitting to her? She breathed, fingering the soft coverlet. If he did, she had no idea how he'd react.

Eventually she had to get out of bed; the need for the loo was too great. Steeling herself, Hermione emerged. The great house was quiet. She soon forgot her concern. The house was a marvel, especially in the soft light of early morning.

With her basic need taken care of, she dared to see if Lucius was awake. Hermione shook her head when she found him. He had fallen asleep at the desk, cheek resting against his forearms. He had known it was coming, apparently, for the quill was placed to the side, the ink pot closed, and his papers neatly weighted down so they wouldn't go anywhere. It was a strange sight and she was sure he hadn't intended to still be asleep. He had probably just wanted to put his head down for a doze.

She could have told him that that never worked. She thought briefly about levitating him to his bed or at least the couch. Then she threw that idea away. He didn't deserve it, not after last night's behavior. Let him wake up with a sore neck and arms gone numb from the pressure.

Hermione stuck her tongue out at his back before returning to the bathroom. The tub in here was simply glorious. She would be damned if she didn't use it almost every day. She needn't worry about Lucius, as she knew he had his own facilities. She performed a precautionary Scourgify, turned the great taps, and once she found the perfect temperature, left it to fill.

In her room she picked out the day's clothing and unearthed her toiletries from her bag. An idea was beginning to formulate in her head. She was thinking so hard that she nearly forgot her towel. That would have been an interesting and highly embarrassing situation, though she supposed she could use her pajamas to dry off if push came to shove.

A few minutes later she slid into the bathtub and couldn't control a groan of pleasure. It seemed too loud in the cavernous room, and she clapped her hand over her mouth. Merlin, she didn't want Lucius hearing anything like that and thinking dirty thoughts about her. He was only allowed to do that in his dreams, because he had no control over them.

The claw-foot alabaster tub was big enough for three people. If it dated to Roman times, it had probably _contained_ three people on more than one occasion. Hermione sighed and reached for her shampoo. She lathered slowly, not caring for the time, treating herself to a scalp massage. The crisp scent of the cleanser filled the room.

Something slid into place in her head right then. Apples. Her shampoo and conditioner smelled like apples! As unconsciously as she had absorbed Draco's smell back in school and recognized it when it filtered through his father's dreams, so, too, had Lucius absorbed _her_ smell. She pondered it until the bubbles threatened to drip into her eye.

She rinsed with the hand-held hose, careful not to spray water outside the tub, though if she had been looking she would have seen that the floor was actually charmed to absorb any run-off. If he smelled apples in a dream, then, what did it mean? It wasn't just sex. The dream this morning was light years from that and hard to assign; it had been jubilant and upsetting in equal shares. But perhaps more jubilant…he had been ridiculously happy behaving like a child with the other boys, and in spite of the stressful encounter with his father, he had been able produce and control magic for what might have been the first time.

Hermione shook her head and tried not to read into it. It was her nature, though, and even when she tried to shut down her critical thinking, it carried on free of her license. He associated her – her _smell_ – with happiness, pleasure, and…freedom? It was a difficult concept to swallow. But the subconscious didn't lie. However much he pretended that he hated her, that her presence grated on him, that he could care less if she lived or died…it was all for show. She waited to be struck by lightning. Because surely…surely that was the only thing that could happen with such blasphemous thoughts…thoughts that Lucius Malfoy actually _enjoyed_ her company.

"Yeah, right," Hermione snorted, and reached for her conditioner.

* * *

Her idea had solidified by the time she finished her bath. She couldn't stay in the villa with him all day; it left too much time to occupy, and too many chances for him to get feisty. She knew he could control himself. That was never in doubt. It was whether or not he wanted to that could prove problematic. She was brave, but she knew better than to stand in the way of his moods.

He was still asleep, draped across the desk just as she'd left him. Hermione was set to walk out the door and leave him to his own devices for most of the day when the voice of temptation purred in her head. What had he written last night?

She had already seen more of Soif than anyone else. However, she'd been so shocked, so full of adrenaline when she first caught him that she didn't remember any of the few paragraphs she'd skimmed. This was a free pass. He was sleeping soundly. And if he woke, well, it was her prerogative to check his progress since it was the reason he'd dragged her out here.

Unable to deny her curiosity, Hermione padded softly over to the desk. She lifted the paperweight and pulled out the topmost page; they were face-down, so this was the last thing he had written before succumbing to sleep. There was only one paragraph on the page.

_I didn't know then that he was a Legilimens. I didn't know he could dig into my mind and so easily pluck the grapes of my wrath; and pluck them he did. He plucked them and feasted on them until the juice ran down his chin, and I should have realized what he was doing when he spoke in my face and his breath smelled of bitter wine._

She stood there for a long time, listening to the rhythm of his breath. If that wasn't about Voldemort, then she was a Veela. Crestfallen, she slipped the parchment back into the stack. In one sixth of a page she knew that Soif was going to be much, much worse than Faim.

She headed for the door once again, but stopped with an exasperated sigh. Leveling her wand at him, she muttered,

"Mobilicorpus."

It was a mark of how tired he was, how little he thought her capable of, or how little he cared, that he did not so much as stir as she levitated him onto the couch.

* * *

She felt reckless but that seemed to be the theme of the month. And what the hell, she was in Italy with a wallet full of Lucius Malfoy's money. People did crazy things in Italy all the time. She remembered stories from Lavender Brown's trip after the war, full of encounters with strange, flirtatious men, kissing Caribinieri, drinking water out of public fountains, too much grappa and not enough limoncello. Hitchhiking a ride to Siena was not so bad, was it?

She didn't have time to think about it and she preferred it that way. As she made her way onto the main road, far past that fork she'd met with Lucius last night, a man on a motorcycle slowed down. He rolled to a stop and pulled off his helmet. No wonder people fell for these men; back home she would have to search for a week to find one this attractive. Well, that was unfair; English men were attractive, but not in the same way. It was a disparity of mannerism that accounted for the difference.

"Buongiorno, signorina," he said, flashing a smile.

"Buongiorno," she replied, at least knowing what that meant. "Parla inglese?"

"Yes," he responded. "Do you need a ride, beautiful?"

"Yes. Si," Hermione said, a little flustered by the fact that he made no attempt to hide that he was looking her over. Her outfit wasn't the most revealing, but it wasn't the most demure, either. It was summer; it wasn't a crime to wear a halter top.

"Where to?"

"Siena. If you're going somewhere else, that's fine."

"I was not really going anywhere." He handed her the helmet with another disarming smile. "Now I have a destination and a pretty passenger." Oh dear, what was she getting herself into? He patted the extra seat on his motorcycle. "I don't bite."

"Of course not," she replied, smiling back at him. This would be fun, and besides, if he got any ideas, she had her wand. She climbed onto the motorcycle, put the helmet on, and wrapped her arms around his midsection. He started the engine and turned his head.

"What is your name?" he spoke loudly over the bike's roar.

"Jean," she replied. In situations like this, it was just easier to use her middle name. A smirk touched her lips; what happened in Tuscany stayed in Tuscany… "What's yours?"

"Dario." He gunned the engine. "Hold on tight, Jean."

* * *

She was amazed at the lengths Dario would go to in the hopes of getting even one kiss from her. He stayed with her the entire day, showed her the sights of Siena, bought her lunch, a flower, a drink, and a tira misu gelato, all the while flirting shamelessly. Then, when she realized she had been gone for nearly eight hours, she tried to excuse herself. She was planning on just finding a secluded spot and then apparating, but Dario insisted on taking her back on the motorcycle.

When he dropped her off in the same spot he'd picked her up, she kissed him just for the effort. She didn't feel like herself, kissing a near-stranger on a motorcycle, but that was kind of the point. There was no one here that knew her, no one that could point a finger at her and say she wasn't acting normal. It was…excellent.

"Jean," he said as she handed his helmet back to him, "you are the prettiest girl I've ever kissed." She smiled in spite of the fact that she knew he'd probably told that to a hundred girls before her, and would to a hundred girls after.

"Grazie, Dario."

"Ah! Your flower." He held out the red gerbera daisy he'd purchased for her. "Will I see you again?"

Hermione brought the flower to her nose and inhaled. "Maybe," she said coyly behind the ruby petals.

Dario laughed, kicked off, and sped away. She knew she'd never see him again and so did he, and curiously, it didn't matter. She made her way back up to the villa with a smile on her face.

* * *

The house was bright and airy and filled with sweet breezes. However, his desk was clear and Lucius was nowhere to be found. But he wouldn't have left the windows open if he departed the house, right? Maybe he was in that courtyard he'd mentioned briefly. The only question was, where the hell was it?

She wandered through the gargantuan stone house, patient in her exploration. Ah, there was an open door and a bright slice of sunlight beyond. She could hear the trickle of water. Hermione pushed open the door, just enough so that she could see. Sure enough, Lucius was half-reclined in a chair occupying a mottled slice of shade. He was fully dressed but barefoot. As she watched, he reached down to shoo a small moth from his ankle and absently rubbed the spot where it had landed. The flash of an inch of leg had an almost Victorian effect on her; it made her realize for the first time that there was skin beneath his clothes, miles and miles of skin, and her mind ran away with itself for a moment, trying to envision his calf, his knee, his thigh, because up til now he'd only had trousers…

His head turned slightly. A second later he said,

"How nice of you to grace me with your presence."

She pushed the strange thoughts of his integument away. Giving up the charade, Hermione stepped out into the courtyard. She thought about asking if her absence had worried him but knew she would only get a sarcastic answer, so she kept her silence. Hermione took the seat to the right of him and waited to see where things would go.

"You are sunburned," he observed after a time.

Hermione touched her cheeks; they were warm and a little tender. She was sure her back was the same. She hadn't thought to do a sun-blocking charm, but it was easily healed.

"I went to Siena," she said, staring at the small fountain in the middle of the courtyard.

"Oh yes?" he said mildly. "Was it worth seeing?"

She nodded. "Very pretty. Did you write?"

"Some," was his response. Hermione watched him intently. Never had she been involved in small talk that was so uncomfortable yet so natural, forced but not forced. They were, she reflected, like card players staring at each other across the table, both pondering what the other held.

The orange kitten distracted her then; it wandered into the courtyard, jumped up onto the edge of the fountain, and lapped at the water until it had its fill. Then it leapt gracefully to the ground and moved toward them. It went to Lucius and he didn't seem bothered by it. The kitten twined around the ankle that dangled casually from the chaise, and then the small ball of fur sprung up to join him. He didn't pet it but he didn't push it away, either. He was supremely unconcerned when it curled up on his thigh and began to doze. Hermione gave him a knowing look, which he steadfastly ignored.

"I brought a house elf," Lucius said a few minutes later, "so that we don't have to go into town for every meal. It's at your disposal. Ask whatever you wish of it."

Hermione felt a spear of annoyance. "Does it have a name?"

"Jo-Jo."

"You're not going to mistreat it," she said firmly.

Lucius turned to look at her, an eyebrow raised at the tone in her voice. "Do not trouble yourself, Miss Granger. I learned that lesson well enough with Dobby."

A conflicted pain lodged in her gut. It made her angry to think about how cruel he had been and sad to think of Dobby's death, but at the same time, it was encouraging that he was claiming reform. She would see if it was true soon enough.

"You should get out of the sun," he stated a moment later. He stood up, strode over to her, and deposited the kitten in her lap. "I will see you for dinner, if you deign to join me."

* * *

She went in twenty minutes later, starting to feel the low throb of the sunburn. The kitten once again chose to stay outside. She shrugged and let it be. As she walked inside she experienced that blind moment when one transitioned from bright light to the indoors; she leaned on the wall until her eyes adjusted.

He was in the living room, reading a book that looked suspiciously like it might have come from her stack. She wasn't going to say anything, but she would help herself to any books he had if the opportunity arose. Aside from his Dark Arts fetish, he probably had good taste in reading material. She was just about to ask him what time dinner was, thinking she'd take a short nap beforehand, when an owl swooped in through the window.

He didn't appear surprised. He took two pieces of mail from it, one thick, one thin. He perused quickly and then held the thinner envelope out to her.

"For me?"

He nodded, not lifting his eyes from his own piece of mail. Hermione took the letter and retreated to a chair across the room. It was from Ron.

_Dear Hermione,_

_What's going on? Your boss says you've gone on vacation, but no one seems to know where. Is everything all right? Please let me know where you are._

_Love you,_

_Ron_

She frowned and a sensation of guilt filtered through her. She hadn't told anyone where she was going because she hadn't known until she got here. Of course the one time Ron actually came home to surprise her, she wasn't there. That seemed to be the way of things, with him. They were never on the right timeline.

She stood up and walked over to the desk. She was reaching for his quill before it occurred to her that he might have some neurosis about it. She might have a hang-up over the utensil she was using to craft her life story, if their positions were reversed.

"Lucius?"

He looked up, but his eyes were not truly paying attention to her. "What?"

"May I use your quill?"

"No," he replied. "It's cursed so that any muggleborn who touches it will die."

"I – what?" she stammered.

He rolled his eyes, gave her a look that said she was daft, and returned to reading his letter. She glared at him and resisted the urge to throw the inkpot at his head. She knew it was a sarcastic joke – there was that twisted sense of humor again – but nonetheless she approached the quill with some trepidation. When it didn't cause her instant death, she wrote a quick reply to Ron's letter.

_Ron,_

_I'm sorry, I know I've worried you. I was a little stressed and needed some time to myself. It was all very sudden. I'm in Italy. It's lovely here and I feel myself relaxing and forgetting about all the things that were bothering me. I'll be back in about two weeks. See you then._

_Love,_

_Hermione_

Knowing that the greater majority of the letter was composed of half-truths caused her to sigh. She did love Ron, really she did, but she wasn't going to marry him. That knowledge had solidified in her mind sometime in the last 48 hours. It may have been there much longer than that, but some part of her had been blocking it out. She would discuss it with him when she got back; she owed him that much. It would be difficult, but it would be unfair to both of them if she didn't express how she really felt. She started to attach the letter to the owl when Lucius interrupted her.

"Wait. I'm going to need to send a reply, also. I will send them both when I'm done."

She nodded and left the folded piece of parchment on the desk. She could care less if he read it. Her eyes were drawn to the letter in his hands. It was typewritten, not handwritten, and several pages long. What little she could see of it looked rather official.

"What did you get?" she couldn't help but ask. Her curiosity about him was reaching epic proportions. Normally she was much better at controlling it, but the need to _understand_ him was almost insatiable. It was as if he was the most difficult arithmancy problem she'd ever been handed; she knew the impossibility of solving it, but would try her damnedest anyway, chipping away at the equation until she could dig no further…

"Nothing of note," he replied brusquely. "Go take your nap. Jo-Jo will wake you when it is time to eat."

She didn't argue. She was tired and he obviously didn't want to share. Hermione wandered to the cool sanctuary of her bedroom, endlessly thankful for the insulating properties of stone, and fell asleep as soon as she hit the mattress.

* * *

As promised, the house elf woke her an hour later. Jo-Jo was a petite little female with a high, squeaky voice and gleaming violet eyes.

"Master Lucius wishes Jo-Jo to inform Miss Granger that dinner is ready," the elf said, rubbing her hands together nervously.

"Thank you, Jo-Jo," she responded with a smile. "How is master Lucius treating you?"

"Oh, excellent, Miss Granger. Him and Miss Narcissa rescued me from the Lestranges, they did, and Jo-Jo will be forever grateful."

Hermione frowned slightly; that wasn't what she'd asked, but she supposed that anything would seem excellent in comparison to serving the Lestranges. "I'll be out in a few minutes," she said, deciding not to press the little elf. Jo-Jo nodded, curtsied, and disapparated with a quiet pop.

Hermione quickly splashed some water on her face. Then, remembering the sunburn, she took her wand from the pocket of her capris and healed her reddened skin. Tomorrow she would have to remember a sun-block charm. Making sure her hair was in some semblance of order and giving herself a sniff to make sure she didn't smell (although why she should care was beyond her), she deemed herself presentable and emerged.

Lucius was already at the table in the dining room. Already nursing a glass of white wine, too. The honeyed liquid looked quite tempting, especially when she thought about how cool and crisp it would be against her palate. The glass was fogged with condensation and that sealed it for her; she was going to have some wine, too. A glass was set out for her and she was glad she wouldn't have to ask. She poured a glass and then sat down across from him.

"Tell me, Miss Granger," he said, lifting a newspaper she hadn't noticed until just then, "have you mastered the art of being in two places at once?"

"Not that I know of," she responded, wondering why he was asking. Being in two places at once was something that not even witches and wizards could accomplish. Sure, there were cloning spells, but they never worked on people. If one wanted to be technical one could say communicating via floo constituted being in two places at once. However, having your head in one place and the rest of you in another was rarely a useful position.

"The Prophet thinks you have run off with Viktor Krum," Lucius said, pushing the newspaper toward her. She picked it up and quickly skimmed the article. No wonder Ron had written. He'd probably feared that it was true, although by now he ought to know better. Jealousy didn't operate rationally, though, and when it came to Viktor, Ron tended to be terribly boorish and possessive. She took a sip of her wine and then folded the paper disinterestedly.

_That's no more fantastic than who I've actually run off with._

His eyebrow rose. Then his fingers played with the wine glass, turning it in little circles. _As they say, Miss Granger, the truth is sometimes stranger than fiction._

* * *

It was later, when she was ensconced in the couch pretending to read, that she figured it out. He had sat down to write but since then very little had been put on paper. Something was distracting him. His left hand was going, tapping rhythmically in conjunction with his foot. He didn't realize he was doing it; she couldn't concentrate with the repetitive sound but didn't think he'd take kindly to her yelling at him to stop. So she stared at him for a time, hoping he'd cease on his own. It was in the observation of his long, restless fingers that insight descended upon her.

"Divorce papers," she blurted.

The tapping stopped. Silence echoed, large and menacing in the high-ceilinged room. Reluctantly he rotated to face her. It reminded her of a muggle movie and the way the villain was always revealed in a slow, dramatic turn of a chair.

"They say, quite correctly, that you are bright. Too bright."

Hermione regretted the outburst. It had just come upon her so suddenly, one of those moments of exceptional clarity that required verbalization. That was why she wasn't a Ravenclaw; she couldn't keep moments like that under control.

"I…you said not to worry about your wife, and you're not wearing your wedding band," she said in a small voice. She wished she could rewind and have the sense to keep her mouth shut. Now she was in this conversation with no way out. His left hand twitched reflexively at her words. He sat back in his chair a moment later, and she had the distinct feeling that she had taken his pride, dragged it into a dark alleyway, and killed it. Lucius looked away from her.

"Imagine this, Miss Granger. You are married - have been for nearly a quarter of a century. You have never wanted for anything, including your husband's attention. What would you do, then, if he refused to make love to you for three years? What would you think?"

She swallowed but found that she was not as uncomfortable as she might have been discussing his sex life, however hypothetically. "I would think there was something he wasn't telling me," she replied, giving him a significant look.

"Or that he no longer desired you? That he was finding his pleasure elsewhere?"

"Perhaps," she said softly.

"And what if that husband, on top of neglecting you for all this time, suddenly began to disappear for long periods with no explanation? What would you think then?"

"That he was involved with someone else." It was the conclusion that most women would jump to – Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black, included. Hermione rubbed her temples. He was mapping it all out for her and it ached. The disappearances – they were visits to his healer, and more recently, attempts to write the book.

"Would you leave him?" he said bluntly. He was drawn far away from her in the chair, his arms crossed against his chest.

Unable to stand it any longer, she shot to her feet, her book flying to the floor with a thump. "Don't sign those papers, Lucius," she implored. "_Tell_ her. If she loves you--"

He cut her off, rancorous. "Do _not_ insult me with talk of love."

"It's not fair," she fumed, feeling young and petulant. "You're only trying to protect her!"

He snorted, growing more agitated with each passing second. She could feel it in his mind, that growing turbulence, but didn't dare to try to touch his thoughts. She had already put him on the defensive and instinct warned her that any further encroachment would qualify as dangerous.

He stood up suddenly. "What's done is done. Enjoy your book."

She processed the heavy tread of his footsteps and then the slam of his door; the solid sound echoed through the house. She expelled a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding. It was true that Lucius was behaving like an idiot, but for once in her life, Hermione Granger felt like one, too.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Thanks everyone for the reviews. A few responses:

Alice1985: I don't want to say much about Lucius's fate. I will say that I'm not here to make anyone miserable with the ending of my story, which is still a long time coming. :)

Velvet Storm: That's probably the last of Dario. However, I never know where my muse will take me, so he might make another appearance. Are you requesting him? ;) As for Narcissa and the divorce, you'll understand a little more by the end of this chapter.

justanobject: Thank you for the praise. It's good to hear. Lucius and Hermione are improbable, but not impossible in the hands of the right author...

Cyranothe2nd: Yeah, I'm sure I lost a lot of people with the HIV twist in chapter 5. The muse made me do it. It was just the curveball I needed; I was going to give him SOME disease, but cancer just didn't seem to have the same punch and everyone uses the 'slowly dying from a curse' a la Dumbledore thing. Also, a really important part of the inspiration for this story was me wondering what the true physical (biological) difference would be between a muggle and a witch or wizard. Too much time on my hands, you say? No, just too many boring classes to sit through. On another note, though, HIV is a topic that makes a lot of people uncomfortable or makes them think that there is no possibility of intimacy between the characters. The truth is, there are things that are much more intimate than sex, not to mention that thing called safe sex. **Thanks for being one of the more enlightened readers and sticking with me. (THAT GOES FOR EVERYONE WHO CONTINUES TO READ AND REVIEW, even you lurkers...though it would be nice to hear from you! ) **

LoneCayt: You bring up an important point. People ARE wondering and speculating about the author. It will become a big problem later on. **I realize that I need to do a little clarification in regards to what exactly was covered in Faim.** My intention was that it chronicles Lucius's life up until the age of 23 - independent of Voldemort. The Dark Lord isn't mentioned in the first book at all, hence why Hermione and several others didn't immediately figure out who the author was. He could be any wizard or no real wizard at all; remember, Lucius was deliberately vague in crafting the story. The reason the first book stops at age 23 is because that marks a transitional point in Lucius's life. After that, he becomes deeply involved with Voldemort and the Death Eaters. This will be covered in more detail in later chapters. What's important is that the events of his youth and early adulthood put Lucius in a position to be highly vulnerable to Voldemort's ideals. It's the second book, Soif, that will go into his involvement with Voldemort and the Death Eaters in more detail. That would have given people the clues they needed to figure out his identity, and if Hermione hadn't interfered Lucius had every intention of disappearing and finding his end on his own terms. Now that she has disrupted his plans, Soif may not be the end of Lucius Malfoy's story...

Thanks to all the reviewers, new & old. Questions? Ask 'em, I'm finishing up with school and will have more time to answer. Now on with the show.

* * *

She woke once again to the gentle sunlight of early morning. There had been no dreams last night, at least none that she remembered, and that was a sweet relief. Still, she was stuck in this house with an irritated and vulnerable Lucius Malfoy and she doubted he'd be feeling overly civil after she had so tactlessly called him out on the dissolution of his marriage.

Hermione frowned. She was trying to understand him, she really was. But the more she thought about it, the less she could comprehend his motivations. He had been married to Narcissa for nearly twenty-five years, and she knew he felt _something_ for her. What that was she didn't know. He'd known her, Hermione, for a month and it was safe to say that nothing existed between them but obligation. He would confess his illness to her without hesitation, but would let his marriage fall apart because he wouldn't tell his wife?

She couldn't claim to know Narcissa Malfoy. She had no idea how she would receive the news that her husband had a deadly muggle disease. But she had a right to know, didn't she? Even just to save her the anger and shame of thinking that her husband was cheating on her…

Hermione bit her lip. She was sorely tempted to write a letter to Narcissa. However, that wasn't her right and she was certain it would be extremely ill-received by Lucius. She had to remember that she was still tied to him. He was behaving well but there was no guarantee that he would continue to if given the proper motive.

She wasn't going to let it slide, though. Right now he needed his wife. He needed everyone who had a care for him – and she knew that comprised a very small group of people. He'd done it to himself, but so what? He was different now.

He was awake when she emerged. Awake and busily hunched over the desk, scribbling quickly at the parchment; again his lips were moving soundlessly, and as she watched he ran a hand through sleep-mussed hair. She wondered how long he'd been out here. The windows were open. Maybe he had watched the sun rise.

Shaking her head, Hermione retreated. She wasn't yet ready to talk to him. She needed to gather her thoughts, put together a logical argument, or else it would be pointless. She had decided that she would go to Assisi today. She had seen pictures and it seemed to be the kind of airy, beautiful place that would enable her to think, really think, about the situation she was in and the best way to make Lucius listen to her.

She hadn't realized how right she was in her ruminations about him. He was ready to die. He was shutting down slowly, ensuring that everything was in place, letting people slip away from him, so that when the time came, his death would cause little more than a ripple in the wizarding world's small ocean. She was now all the more determined not to let him get off that easily.

She bathed in the luxurious tub again, enjoying it more now that her mind was not racing with their shared dreams. When she smelled her shampoo, though, she wondered what it meant that she had _not_ dreamed last night. Maybe it meant nothing. Or maybe it meant that he really had realized what was happening, and he'd taken steps to end it. Not the Vow; no, she could still feel him on the edge of her consciousness, hovering like a quiet shadow. But perhaps he had given in to Dreamless Sleep.

Sighing, Hermione pushed him out of her mind. He had occupied it far too much lately. She was beginning to forget that she had her own life, trapped in this Tuscan bubble of oddities with him. She finished getting ready and this time she remembered the sun blocking charm. Today she wouldn't come back looking like a lobster.

He almost let her go without saying a word. She thought he might still be irritated with her. But then his curiosity got the better of him.

"Where are you going today?" he asked, not looking up from his papers as she walked by.

She surveyed him. He appeared the same, still slightly unkempt, but it was an endearing look on him. Was that a hint of pale stubble on his cheeks and chin? Yes – and he had ink on his fingers again. The food that Jo-Jo had prepared for him sat on the window ledge, untouched. She wondered how much he had written and spared a moment to worry about his appetite.

"I'm going to Assisi."

His hand moved in a slight flourish as he finished another sentence. "What is in Assisi?"

"It's where Saint Francis was from. His tomb and his cathedral are there."

He nodded. He reached for his cup of tea, only to put it down again when he realized it was cold.

She asked the obvious question. "Do you want to come with me?"

"No," he said immediately, but not rudely, derailing her assumption that his silence meant he was waiting for an invitation. His tone of voice said that he could care less. "You go see your saints, Miss Granger…and I will continue writing about my sinners."

She turned to walk out the door, but couldn't resist throwing a thought at him. _Even Lucifer was a saint, once._

He finally looked up, pinning her in his gaze.

_You seem to have used up your powers of intellect last night, Miss Granger. He was not a saint. Lucifer was an angel._ And his lips quirked in an odd sort of smile; with a brief shake of his head, he dipped his quill in the inkpot and was off in a fresh flurry of words that she knew would be nothing short of genius.

* * *

She got to Assisi the same way she had gotten to Siena: hitchhiking. Only this time it was not an attractive man on a motorcycle that picked her up. It was an older man and his wife that drove a battered pickup truck full of produce. She sat on a cooler in the back, surrounded by fruits and vegetables, and suddenly remembered that she had not eaten in her rush to escape Lucius.

She was inordinately embarrassed by her inaccurate comment about Lucifer. Why had she even thought of it? She didn't know. But how did _he_ know about Lucifer and angels and saints? He wouldn't know religion if it whacked him upside the head with a giant wooden cross. Not to mention he hardly seemed the type to read the Bible in his spare time – thought at least he read.

She watched the countryside roll by. She should know better than to make assumptions about him. Many people like him found religion when they hit rock bottom. He was definitely at rock bottom, or very close to it, but God didn't factor into the equation. Wizards and witches on a whole were not terribly religious; few things were miraculous to people who could do magic. The holidays they celebrated had less to do with God and Jesus and more to do with the pagan festivals that had preceded them.

Hermione lay somewhere in between; as a muggle she had been raised on tried and true Christianity but it had faded out of her life around the time she entered the magical world. Still, she would occasionally catch herself praying, and she did sometimes wonder if there was someone up there looking out for her. She had escaped certain death at Malfoy Manor, pulled off an extremely improbable break-in to Gringotts, and survived a war that was about eradicating her kind. Not miraculous, but bordering on it…

Perhaps this, too, was some strange ambiguous twist of fate. Maybe she was meant to see him in Flourish and Blotts, meant to observe him at the tea house, destined to be sucked into this peculiar arrangement with someone she once thought was irredeemable. She was the same in his eyes, worthless because of the circumstances of her birth. Or at least she had been; she was not so sure anymore. Perhaps destiny had thrown them together to somehow…

The truck hit a bump in the road, startling her out of her thoughts. It was best not to dwell on such things, anyway. Lucius Malfoy and destiny should not be concepts that existed in the same sentence. If he kept writing the way he had been this morning, he would finish the book soon and be out of her life forever. Literally…

She jumped when the window to the cab was pulled open suddenly. The woman poked her head out and gestured at a crate of oranges. They were the most beautiful shade of firey orange and nearly the size of a grapefruit.

"Mangi!" she said, smiling. Eat. Hermione smiled gratefully and took one of the oranges. As she peeled it, though, she could not prevent her mind from flickering back to Lucius. She hadn't thought about the end of this before. The end of this was the end of him, if he kept to his word that he was going to stop taking the medications and let himself succumb to the disease. Would she be able to just let him walk away, knowing that he was going to die alone and miserable and so misunderstood…

It made her more emotional than it should have. Her eyes were stinging as she stripped the last of the skin from the orange. Her heart was beating too fast. There was that pity again. She had to remind herself that he didn't want it. Until she could somehow convert that pity to empathy, it meant nothing.

She peeled a segment of the orange and carefully searched for pits. After extracting them, she savored its sweet-tart taste. It might have been the most delicious piece of citrus she ever ate. She wondered if the man and woman had grown it themselves. Maybe that made all the difference.

She leaned back, finding a surprisingly comfortable position against a bale of hay. For the rest of the ride she slowly ate the orange and stared up at the lurid Tuscan sky. In its blueness she remembered the little boy from her dream, the child who had looked at her with such piercing, guarded curiosity…and it occurred to her that this Lucius might not be so different, after all.

* * *

Her mood didn't lighten when she arrived in Assisi. It had nothing to do with the hike to get into the city; it was on a hilltop, a steep climb for anyone, but she enjoyed the strain it put on her. She always felt more alive when she had to work hard for something. Once she was inside the city walls, she wasn't disappointed.

The view was spectacular. Better than his villa. She was up higher so the lands stretched into oblivion, yellow and green and white and red, fading into a purple mist on the horizon. Merlin, it should be illegal for a place to be so beautiful. But today, instead of making her uplifted, it only made her feel a curious and heavy melancholy deep in her gut.

The cathedral strengthened that feeling. It was unadorned on the outside, plain beige stones. It was tremendous in scale, though, and seemed to straddle the edge of the city like an invader's fortress. The inside was sparsely opulent, as many basilicas were. Frescoes adorned the walls. She could tell that they had been beautiful once, but time had worn them down to faded pictures, barely visible, mere shadows of what they had once been.

The crypt was a little better. Odd, since it was the underground tomb of a dead saint. She supposed it might be the Franciscan monks and Poor Clares who sat on austere pews, either bent in prayer or rapturous contemplation. The only thing she could find so much faith in was books; still, she felt the intensity of their devotion and it fortified her.

She left the basilica feeling cathartic. Not better, but in uneasy peace. Hermione spent the rest of the day wandering through the old city. It was truly one of the most breathtaking places she'd ever been, literally and figuratively; the hills were unrelenting and by the time her stomach reminded her that she should go back and eat, she was completely exhausted.

She made one last stop before she apparated back. It was the Temple of Minerva, a Roman construct incorporated flawlessly into the rest of the city. She walked between the great Corinthian columns, looking up until she became dizzy, and then she was inside.

It was small and had been converted to a church. But a more beautiful church she had never seen; the walls were a pale blue, the ceiling painted like the sky, and the altar took up the entire back wall, trimmed in gold. This made up for the church Saint Francis would have hated.

She found a dark corner and apparated, unable to put any coherent words to the way she felt. Hermione didn't see him when she walked in and didn't care to know where he was; probably out lounging in the courtyard again, spoiling the kitten he claimed not to like. Her bed was calling.

As she stumbled around her room, not quite realizing just how tired she was, an orange fell out of her bag. Oh, yes, the kind couple who had let her hitch to Assisi had given her another one for the road. She had forgotten. Smiling, she placed it on the night stand, collapsed face-first into the bed, and fell asleep.

* * *

It was hot. She knew that Italy could be hot, especially in July, but the villa's thick walls usually kept it cool. The room around her seemed to be filled with steam, coating her, suffocating her, and she moved reflexively as if to throw off a blanket. However, there was no blanket; she was nude, on her stomach on top of the covers, her skin slicked with sweat.

She had no time to ponder the meaning of it. Another sweaty body slid along hers, hard and masculine, lithe against her skin. Something was wrong with her. This didn't incite alarm. This strange sweaty man naked on top of her did not bother her in the slightest. Rather, he did bother her, but not in the way he should have…

He made her even hotter than she already felt. The way his strong thigh nestled between the backs of hers, his hip pressed against her buttocks, his pleasant weight leaned upon her, and his ghost-light fingers stroking her hair away from her neck…it incinerated her, made her nerves light with undeniable surges of desire.

Lips touched the back of her neck. A strong hand stroked along her side. She could feel him stirring, rising against her hip. Who was he? Oh, God, she didn't care – his tongue was tracing a path up her spine, sending jolts of electricity surging beneath her skin. She nearly arched off the bed; the want it provoked in her was overwhelming.

She squirmed, yearning to turn over and wrap her legs around this dream man. That's what he was. There was no way this situation would be so unremarkable, or so arousing, if it were taking place in real life. The dream-man held her in place and his teeth closed warningly against the edge of her shoulder blade. She trembled, reveling in the way the tremors made her skin catch and chafe against his.

Distantly, Hermione hoped that she was not making noises in her sleep. But there was no way she was going to pull herself out of this dream. Oh, no, not for a million galleons. Not when his mouth and teeth were working across her back, nipping, sucking, tracing the borders of her scapula, and one of those strong hands burrowed beneath her torso to claim her breast.

A moment later he used that leverage to turn her. She rolled breathlessly, ready to see him, to kiss him, to use this agreeable creation of her id to dispel some of the odd frustration she'd been feeling – but not ready to see that he had a familiar face. Intense blue eyes, patrician features, a pale valance of silken hair…oh, heaven help her, Lucius had worked his way into _her_ fantasies, now…

Again, it didn't bother her as much as it should have. She was trapped in this intense tête-à-tête with him, as much by her own inability to just leave him to his fate as by his crafty assurance in the form of the Vow. And he was not at all the man she had expected; yes, he was arrogant, he took liberties, he could burrow under her skin with his mere presence, but it was never with the harsh words and genocidal ideals of the past. It was because he knew her better than she knew herself, because he could dance circles around her intellect with his own – though perhaps that was only attributable to the fact that he was older and had seen more of the world and all its permutations.

This was as dangerous as ever. She knew it as his phantom presence played over her stomach, cupped a breast; his illusive hands were sticky. Lucius Malfoy with sticky fingers; what a great surprise, and what a cruel irony her mind threw at her. Syrupy or otherwise, she wasn't going to force him out. Fantasies were only fantasies. He had no such qualms enjoying her wholly improbable presence in his dreamscapes. He was only a face put to a drive, a mask over a need. That was all it was…

But it felt too familiar when his fingers touched her mouth. It reminded her of a few days ago, when he had trailed that wicked index finger of his along the soft pillow of her lips, before the lines had been drawn in the sand. Could her mind really recreate that sensation so accurately? It was a powerful thing, the mind…but she still won this battle, because she knew it wasn't real. It wasn't real, so she could give in to what she had wanted to do then. She could open her mouth and trail her tongue along that brazen digit…

Oranges. Mingled with the salt of skin was the taste of oranges, pungent, sweet, tart, just like the one she had eaten that morning on the back of the truck. The sugared juice was crystallized on his fingers, as if he had eaten one of the succulent things himself and not cleaned his hands. There she went, forming strange sensory associations the way he did. Maybe he was rubbing off on her more than she cared to admit.

It was powerful and sexy, though, to know that in spite of all his decorum, he was as much bound in his bodily instincts as anyone else. His dream self was proving that, leaning down to replace his finger with his lips. Even they had a slight citrus tang…

As he kissed her, as she kissed the ghost of him, her mind registered a conflict. She heard distant words, but he wasn't speaking, not when his mouth was occupied over hers. And the pressure of hands against her shoulders, _real_ hands, made no sense because wherever his hands were, they were not on her shoulders…

"…Granger. Miss Granger!"

No. No, why was he waking her? Why was he…?

And then it occurred to her that he might be witnessing her dream, as she witnessed his, but it was early evening, wasn't it? He wouldn't be asleep, he would be walled up against her, writing about his sinners, as he had said. She ignored his prompt, not caring to reason it out. Her brain felt like it was boiling in her head and she wanted only to return to his sweaty incubus grip.

He wouldn't let her be. He intruded again a moment later.

_Miss Granger!_

His voice speared in her head. God, why couldn't he just leave her alone? She moved an arm, feeling the solid barrier of his chest, and she pushed, aware in some dim part of her mind that this was not how she should rationally be behaving. The muscles in her arm trembled and made no headway against him. His hand wrapped around her wrist and she was stunned at how cold his skin was against hers.

_Hermione._

That made her open her eyes. He had used her name. Her name! This was still a dream, because the real Lucius would never, it was like a curse to him, an admission of something neither of them could define. She moved her arm, trying to pull away from the cool surety of his palm. What the hell was going on? What the hell…why was it so _hot_, why…?

"Stop."

The one syllable held a gentle power. It was equal parts care and detachment, order and plea. How did he manage to get away with both?

"Don't touch me," she forced out, surprised at the effort it took and how strange her voice sounded. Her vision wasn't right, either; it blurred at the edges, forming a halo around him, and the colors were wrong, too bright, too garish. His eyes were fluorescent in the muted darkness.

"I needed to wake you," he replied patiently. "You are ill. Your temperature is nearly forty degrees."

That was why it was so bloody hot, why her body was in overdrive, why everything was distorted. She was sick. It made sense. Her eyelids drooped. Already she was overtaxed, just from the exertion of fending off his wake-up call.

"Stay awake." The cool touch of his palm against her cheek jolted her back to him momentarily. She opened her eyes again. She was feverish, maybe delusional, because there was something like concern in his matching stare, and his arms seemed to be gathering her and propping her up.

Knowledge lanced through her brain. If she was ill, he should not be anywhere near her. His immune system was not right. If she infected him with whatever this was, he could _die_ from it. She could _kill_ him. Didn't he know that? It gave her energy and she renewed her struggle against him.

"Get away from me," she pleaded, pushing against him with more strength. "Get away!"

"For Merlin's sake, girl, I have no designs on you!" he responded, darkly annoyed by her resistance and clearly not understanding the unspoken reason behind it. "But if you would like me to leave you here to suffer, I will."

Panic was building in her jumbled mind. In spite of his sentiment, he did not loosen his grasp on her. Didn't he understand? Didn't he comprehend how dangerous this was? And why couldn't she make her mouth or her mind tell him? Before she knew it, she was crying, her hands fisted into his shirt even as she tried to propel him away.

His arms deserted her, only to return to her wrists a moment later and pry her grip form his shirtfront. When his thoughts echoed in her mind, his irritation seemed to have evaporated.

_Be calm. You are making it worse._

She couldn't answer him. Not mentally, not physically – she felt like she was shutting down. Her entire body hurt from the heat it was inflicting upon itself. She was in agony. But, mercifully, it was beginning to fade…

"Drink this." Cool hands, cool water against her lips. She couldn't move. "Hermione?" Ah, her name again. She liked how it sounded in his voice. "Hermione!" Not when it was tinged in worry like that, though. No, that wasn't pleasant…nor were the disjointed curses that she wasn't sure he was speaking aloud or in her head, or the mental pull he tried to exert upon her.

_Damn it, don't leave me!_ He railed against her departure, and she experienced a millisecond of smug clarity before she did exactly what he entreated her not to.

* * *

She felt like she was floating. Maybe that was what insanity or death felt like. Blessedly cool, weightless, unconcerned with the gravity and variability of the real world…yes, death might feel like that. He wouldn't let her die, though. Somehow she knew he wouldn't.

Hermione was content to lounge in the ether. He would find a way to pull her out of it, eventually. There was no need to worry…

It was like being in the womb. The gentle rocking of liquid, the swish as it interacted with its borders, and the all-encompassing hum in her ears were so comforting. Again she marveled at her brain's power, to recreate this sensation in such detail.

"It's bloody _freezing_."

Oh. Her brain could not be imagining that. As she perceived his voice, so, too, did she finally register the fact that there were arms around her, holding her up. Holding her head above…water? Real water.

"If you're shivering, you have to get out. Cold will lower your immunity." Another voice, male, unfamiliar.

"I am not shivering." Lucius's voice, peevish. He was lying; she could feel the jump of his muscles where his chest contacted her back.

"You just said it was freezing."

"Is it working?"

A pause.

"Yes. She's down to 38.6."

"Well, fine. You can treat me for hypothermia after she's back to normal." She wanted to smile. Again, there was his ability to combine things that were normally exclusive – this time, sarcasm and care.

"That's reckless, Lucius."

"Would _you_ like to get in, Smythe?"

"I would like to get back to my practice. I was about to see a woman who bought a black-market prosthesis for her leg. It was made of Whomping Willow wood, apparently, and it not only grew _into _the remainder of her leg, but sprouted branches and began to assault her. I'm probably going to have to amputate even more of the leg."

Lucius chuckled. "Assuming you can get anywhere near it without being pummeled."

There was a beat of silence. Then the other man, the mystery assistant, spoke again.

"You've lost weight. Are you eating?"

"I know I pay you to harp on me for that, but now is _not_ the time." His good humor was gone. The shivering was getting worse; he was cold. The water still felt fine to her, tepid, even, but she remembered the raging heat of the fever. Antarctica would feel lovely to her right now.

"She's at 37.9. That should be enough. I don't want to shock her system and make it go the other way. Let me help you get her out."

She felt Lucius shift behind her and she was being lifted. Then she was passed off to Smythe, who, she realized, was probably his healer. If he was his healer, why hadn't he ordered Lucius away? He would scold him about exposure to the cold water, but not to her germs? It was too exhausting to think about as he wrapped her in a plush towel and turned.

"Not – oh, never mind," Lucius said, as Smythe began to move. She cracked her eyes open a weary fraction.

The sight of Lucius greeted her, standing tall and soaking wet near a bathtub that was shrinking down to its original size. His chest was bare and she wouldn't know if the rest of him was; the towel he was using blocked his lower half. A second later Smythe rounded a corner and the sight of him, so masculine, was obscured by a wall. She let her eyes slip closed. She was so tired…

* * *

It was sometime in the deep silence of night when she next woke. She was no longer feverish, as evidenced by the fact that the sheets pulled over her were not burning her alive. She was pleasantly ensconced in bed. Hermione let her eyes droop, content to drift back to sleep, when she realized that this was not her bed.

They were the same sheets, to be sure. They had matching sets. But the room, now visible in shades of grey to her adjusted eyes, was different. And the smell, foreign but agreeable, was not a feminine one. The strand of pale blond hair that lay across the pillow next to her sealed it. She was in Lucius's bed - minus Lucius.

She sat up slowly. As she did, the sheet slipped from her torso. She clutched at it reflexively before realizing that she was dressed. Scantily, but she was clothed in a black camisole and (upon further observation) kelly green boy shorts. Heaven help her, had Lucius dressed her unresponsive body? He _would_ pick something green…

"I did not pick them just because they were green," he said softly. Her neck turned so swiftly that it almost hurt. He was curled tiredly in a chair near the fireplace. In spite of the fire that was burning, he had a light blanket wrapped around his body. "The healer said to leave you as uncovered as possible. Those things were at the top of your clothing pile. I didn't do it manually, either. I used a spell. You are safe from my molestation." His voice was curiously distant, almost Luna-like in quality.

"I didn't think…I was just…" she stammered.

Lucius snapped his fingers. A second later Jo-Jo appeared with a startling bang.

"Oh!" the little elf squealed. "Miss Granger is awake!"

"Yes," Lucius nodded, "Will you bring some water?"

"Of course, Master. Jo-Jo is ever so glad that you are feeling better, Miss Granger!" she trilled, before disapparating to the kitchen.

A few minutes later Hermione was happily draining a glass of water that magically refilled itself for the third time. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was. She drank until her stomach felt full and sloshy. All the while, Lucius watched her, eerily calm. Or perhaps he was just exhausted; he seemed to be fighting to keep his eyes open. Had he been awake all this time, watching over her?

"The healer let you stay?" she asked, setting the glass down on the night stand.

"Why would he not?"

"I could pass my sickness to you." She frowned. "With the HIV, even a cold can land you in hospital or worse. You must know that."

He nodded.

"Then why are you here?" she demanded, baffled.

"You are not ill. Not in that way."

"What?"

"Heat stroke, Miss Granger, you had heat stroke and dehydration. You pushed yourself a bit too hard in the city of saints…"

Hermione blinked, stunned. Heat stroke? Yes, it had been quite hot out, but she had never felt like it was perilous. Now that she thought about it, though, she had not really had enough water. She'd only had what she could cup in her hands a few times from a free-standing fountain – a few ounces, at best. Nor had she eaten anything besides that orange. Those things combined, along with the hills and the fact that she had been out for the hottest hours of the day, could definitely have pushed her to heat exhaustion.

"I was…in a strange mood," she murmured.

"The next time you are in a strange mood and it is 38 degrees outside, stay home." There was some bite in his voice, but not much. He took a deep breath and then stood up laboriously. He was nearly falling over with fatigue. "Now, Miss Granger, either shove over or go to your own room, because I need to sleep and I will do it on top of you, if necessary."

She moved over out of necessity; he was in the bed before she could make a decision. It was completely innocent in spite of the ripples his wording sent through her. He could barely muster the energy to pull the covers over his pajama-clad body – he truly had no goal other than sleep. Still, something perturbed her.

"We're back to that, are we?" she asked, a bit stand-offishly.

"Back to what?" he murmured.

"You calling me Miss Granger." He said nothing, so she went on. "You called me Hermione before, when I was feverish."

"I thought you would be more responsive to it and I was right," he said dismissively.

"Why won't you use my name?" she demanded, knowing full well that this was not a good time to broach the subject, but unable to stop herself. She had to confess, now that she had heard her name roll from his lips, she wanted to hear it again. She couldn't go back to the stuffy formality of 'Miss Granger'. It made her feel like she was still in school, still a child, neither of which were the case.

He rolled over and glared at her. The look in his eyes and the words that came from his lips in a low growl provoked gooseflesh across her skin.

"I have told you before. Naming something means you intend to keep it."

Her mouth fell open. Before she had entirely processed his meaning, she indignantly spat, "I am not a _something_. Nor am I a thing to be kept!"

Lucius propped himself up on his elbow and leaned close. Hermione had to slant backwards to avoid him. Why did she keep putting herself in these situations? She should have been out of the bed the moment he stood up!

"Every person can be made into a possession," he said, his tone of voice indefinable. His eyes were worse; they were fierce and erudite, telling her in no uncertain terms that he knew more about it than she did.

Digging deep for her courage, she lifted a hand and planted it against his chest. With sufficient pressure, she was able to push him down onto his back. It helped that he didn't put up any resistance. He didn't fight sleep, either. It claimed him two minutes later; she knew because his face relaxed into slack oblivion.

She wasn't angry at him for his familiar presumption. She had deliberately goaded him and he had stayed up all night to watch over her. Never mind that he had quite possibly saved her life. Damn him for being such a contradiction.

Hermione sat there for a long time. He slept peacefully, too tired even to dream. Seeing him like this tempted her to stay in his bed, to just lie down beside him and find her own blissful slumber. She knew instinctively, though, that he would not be the same when they woke. The walls would rise with the sun.

She spared a moment to make sure the covers were adequately positioned around him and lightly touched his cheek the same way he had touched hers when he woke her from her febrile vision. He was so lost to sleep that he gave no reaction to her contact, not even a twitch of his fair eyelashes. She wondered…was he so easily destroyed by the kinds of touches he bestowed upon her?

She reasoned that it was temporary insanity that allowed her fingers to stray across his lips. They were warm and supple and a trickle of balmy air danced along her skin. In the not so distant future that life breath would be gone, his lips cold…an irrational and entirely unwarranted urge to kiss him seized her. It made her dizzy with its power. Hermione trailed her hand along his jaw and the broad plane of his chest as if hypnotized. She had actually leaned down a few centimeters before sense returned to her. Stopping abruptly, she pulled her hand away. She could only look at the appendage, wondering if it had a mind of its own or if she was still delirious. Shaking her head, she berated herself; what did she expect, for his lips to taste like oranges? He wasn't the man from her dream, no matter how similar he looked. With a sigh she slipped from his bed.

* * *

She made only one detour on the way to her own room. She was beguiled by his desk and the neat stack of papers that sat upon it. This was the perfect time to read more of what he had written. He wouldn't be waking any time soon. Funny; she had been worried about his idle hands while she was unconscious, but in the end, she had been the one to molest _him_ while he slept.

Hesitantly, she sat at the desk. She still didn't entirely trust him not to booby-trap his things. However, no grisly fate befell her, and she made herself comfortable in the oversized chair. With a deep breath she reached for the top sheet. It wasn't what she expected when she turned it over.

_I understand what you must be thinking. I will speak to you about my condition, but not my wife? There doesn't seem to be much logic in it. Not to your mind, anyhow. You are unencumbered by the mores of pureblood society. Trust me when I say that I have taken everything into account, and still this is the best solution._

_I married a woman I respected, not one that I loved. In her I found a partner and the bearer of my heir. In exchange I gave her my standing, my money, and my security. That is how many pureblood marriages are, and for this reason many are beset with adultery. You feel sympathy for my wife because she thinks I have cheated on her. She is hardly deserving of this. She has strayed at least three times, to my knowledge, one of them while I was imprisoned. I was inclined to let things pass until then. I know that I put her in great danger, I know that I abandoned the promises I made to her, but I confess to a certain amount of resentment for that tryst. Then again, he was a Slytherin and she was indebted to him; I cannot say I would not press my advantage, were our situations reversed._

_In short, she does not need your sympathy. There are other reasons, as well, those more altruistic, if you believe that word could ever be applied to me – I have my doubts. If anyone comes to know of my condition, it will ruin her status. She will never be able to remarry or be accepted in polite society. The same goes for Draco. I am more concerned for Draco, in truth, but the consequence is the same. They would both be made into pariahs for something they had no part in and no control over. I do not want to condemn my family and the easiest way to ensure that is to separate them from my taint. I need not mention the apprehension of their reaction; I know that I will reap what I have sown._

_I do not know why I feel the need to explain myself to you. I do not know why I care about your approval. I do not know why any of it matters when death is nipping at my heels. But there comes a time when you must stop questioning, leave terra firma behind, and see where the current takes you. Now, nosy thing, stop trying to read the book before it is finished._

That was it. Something that could only be described as a warm chill spread through her. It was fear coupled with mortification; Lucius could see right through her, ascertain her every motivation. He had known that she would stick her nose into his business the first chance she got, and all the while let her go on thinking he was unaware of her intentions. Was she really that transparent? Or was he really that perceptive? Maybe it was both.

As scary as that prospect was, something about the note warmed her. The morose feeling that had gripped her in Assisi was gone. With a conflicted smile, she laid the paper back down on top of its compatriots. The story was right there. She could read it. But no…not today. Today he had bested her. And as uneasy as it made her feel, it was rather attractive and exciting to finally be engaged in a battle of wits with someone who could actually compete…

She started to walk away, but upon second thought, she turned back. She removed the piece of paper again, and, taking his quill and ink, issued a challenge.

_I'll stop trying to read the book when you start calling me by my first name. _

* * *

A/N 2.0 – Here's a taste of Assisi. This is my favorite picture that I took while I was there: i14./albums/a307/forcemotrice/Assisi/ItalyPictures156.jpg


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, everyone. Sorry it's been a little while. I'm just finishing up grad school for the summer and it's been a little nutty. Some responses:

Lucas'Mom: I'm glad you stuck with me. I usually don't get in over my head in terms of plot devices. Either that, or I am very good at pulling off the improbable! Heh. Glad you're enjoying things - I suspect you'll like this chapter, too.

Cyranothe2nd: Yup, you got it - it was Snape, so far you're the only one who's picked up on that little detail (or at least the only person who mentioned it).

Earwen: Thanks! I do love my lurkers!

justanobject: Thank you, I do really try to make it so that my readers can get a physical sense of what I'm trying to describe. Sorry the picture didn't work... probably clipped the link as it usually does...maybe I will post it in my profile.

Duco Lacuna: Thanks for all your comments. Yes, I was thinking of a lot of the issues you mentioned when I began to write this fic. I knew that using the HIV plot device would either turn people away or pique their interest even more, which was a risk I was willing to take - not that my muse would let me do anything else. She's very insistent sometimes. :P

bumble lust: Uh oh, I'm not sure if I want to be the one responsible for your foray into the world of fanfiction...it can be quite addictive! Hehe. Thank you for the compliments, and if you look hard enough, you will find many great stories out there to warrant lots more reviews!

snobunni: Thank you!

MrsHermioneSeverusSnape: Here's your update, I'm sure you won't be disappointed.

Alaramine: Great to hear from you! Yes, more than anything I wanted to make Lucius human, because he is so flat as a character in the books.

fahzzyquill: Yes, Assisi was one of my favorite places in Italy. So I'm sure you were right with me in my descriptions, and could feel the atmosphere like Hermione did. Excellent. :)

icantlivewithoutharrypotter: I love your pen name. I'm sure a lot of us feel that way. Provocative? Yes, that was definitely something I was going for. Thanks, and keep reading!

Mendelbra: I don't know why I don't have more reviews, either. Maybe it's because I'm so modest? Heh. Thanks for your support!

VelvetStorm: Yeah, I'll see what I can do about the picture. Lucius and Hermione are such a great, nuanced pair to work with...

* * *

Hermione woke when Jo-Jo apparated into the room with a bang. She nearly fell out of bed in her fright; the house elf looked frantically apologetic and it took her nearly fifteen minutes to convince the little thing not to punish herself. It was after noon, anyhow; she should get out of bed.

"So sorry, Miss Granger," Jo-Jo apologized for the twenty-third time. "The healer, Mr. Smythe, is here to see you."

"Oh," Hermione said, a little surprised. "I…tell him I'll be right out." The elf nodded and made to disapparate when a thought hit Hermione and she spoke again. "Jo-Jo?"

"Yes?" the elf squeaked.

"I don't suggest you wake Master Lucius like that. He may hex you before he knows what he's doing."

"Yes, Miss Granger," Jo-Jo bowed.

When the house elf was gone, Hermione looked for some pants. She had succumbed to sleep in the same thing Lucius had spelled her into and although Smythe had seen her completely nude, it still wasn't proper to greet him in her underwear. She pulled on a pair of sweatpants, spared a second to tame her hair, and emerged.

"You are looking much improved," the healer said, smiling, when she found him. He was a handsome man with dark hair that grayed at the temples and bespectacled blue eyes. His skin bore a warm tone and some aging that meant he probably spent too much time in the sun. Fortunately, he was one of those men who could manage to look distinguished and not merely old. His words were accented – Canadian, or perhaps American.

"Yes," she nodded, "I feel much better."

"We haven't been formally introduced. Tiresias Smythe." He held out a hand, enveloping hers in a handshake that compressed the bones that ran beneath her palm. Hermione had always secretly suspected that doctors and healers shook hands this way on purpose, in order to increase their business. Hiding a wince, she said,

"Hermione Granger."

He was definitely not from Europe, because he gave no indication that he recognized her name. If he had, he would have found it extremely strange that she was staying with Lucius Malfoy. She wondered what he knew about Lucius; it was more than many, but less than many, as well.

"This is only a formality," he said, slipping into doctor mode. "I want to make sure that you are recovered and that you know what to do so that you are not affected by heat stroke again. Please, sit." He gestured at a chair like it was his own house. Smiling slightly, she lowered herself into the chair. She could see why Lucius liked him; he was a kindred spirit. A little bit arrogant, a little bit intimidating, but smart and flattering enough that people couldn't dislike him outright.

"I want to thank you," Hermione said. "I'm sure you were very busy. I really appreciate your help."

"Honestly, Miss Granger, I didn't do much. Lucius took fine care of you by himself. He only called me because your temperature would not go down in spite of his best efforts." Smythe took a chair across from her and stretched out his legs. "You are rather lucky. Lucius said his son had a case of heat stroke when he was a boy. Without that experience, he might not have known what to do for you. I needn't tell you that this could have ended badly."

She nodded. "Normally I'm very careful. I was…upset over something, not thinking straight, and ended up spending all day outside without much food or water."

Smythe contemplated her shrewdly. "Were you upset over him?"

Hermione blinked, unsure whether she'd heard him correctly. "Excuse me?"

"Lucius. Were you upset over Lucius?"

"I would appreciate it if you wouldn't presume, Mr. Smythe," she said, coloring slightly.

"I'm not." He lifted a hand and pointed; she followed the outstretched digit to the desk. She hadn't noticed last night, but he had left his medication bottles out. "If you didn't know of his condition, he wouldn't leave those out. Clearly, you are aware that he has HIV."

"I…yes," Hermione conceded.

"Then the only presumption I am guilty of is one in which you worry for him."

"I do," she said, a bit stiffly, unused to the admission.

Smythe sighed. "It is honorable of you to care for him so strongly, but not at the cost of your own health. Please be more careful."

Hermione nodded, chastened. _Care for him so strongly…_ Did she, really? She chewed her lip. She cared, yes, but not the way Smythe thought. It was compassion and nothing more. Compassion that he probably didn't deserve, but it made her the better person because she gave it to him anyway.

"Be sure to drink plenty of water." He reached into his pocket and procured something, which he promptly spelled back to its normal size. It was a six pack of muggle sports drinks. "And all of these, to replace your electrolytes. I strongly suggest that you to stay home and recover today and ease back into things at your own discretion. Nothing too strenuous for the next 48 hours, though."

She nodded, accepting the sports drinks and placing them on the table. "Thank you again."

"No need to thank me, Miss Granger," he smiled genuinely. "It is my job, after all. Speaking of which…where is Lucius?"

"Still asleep, I think."

The healer looked slightly annoyed. "Did he stay up all night watching over you?"

Hermione blushed again. Smythe had a way of insinuating things with his wording and tone; he obviously thought that she was more than just Lucius's companion. She would have protested but she strongly suspected that he was the kind of man who couldn't be dissuaded once he made up his mind.

"I may as well check him while I'm here," Smythe said, standing. "Get to work on those sports drinks. Tell the house elf to make you a good lunch – fruit has high water content, especially melon…" he trailed off, lost in his thoughts as he moved toward Lucius's room.

Hermione shook her head, but ended up doing exactly what he suggested. Jo-Jo brought her a plate of honeydew and watermelon with an English muffin. At the sight of it hunger ambushed her and before she knew it the plate was clean. She then examined the sports drinks. She was halfway through one of the plastic bottles when he emerged.

"Wore himself out," Smythe murmured, more to himself than to her. "Probably sleep all day…" He looked up and offered a smile when he saw that she was draining the sports drink. "Good work."

She nodded. Strangely, Smythe did not seem to be in a hurry to leave. He reclaimed the chair he had sat in earlier and appeared lost in thought for several minutes.

"Would you like some lunch, Mr. Smythe?" Hermione asked tentatively, unsure why he was delaying his departure.

"Oh, no, thank you, Miss Granger, I couldn't impose." And then he lapsed back into his pensive silence.

She was perplexed. Yesterday he had been eager to return to his practice. Today he was content to sit in Lucius's villa and do nothing. She had a feeling that he wanted to say something to her; perhaps it was something that violated healer-patient privilege and he was debating whether or not he should reveal it? Hermione waited patiently.

It paid off. A few minutes later, Smythe sat up suddenly, his spine straightening with resolve.

"Miss Granger, what exactly are you and Lucius doing here?"

_Not what you think!_ she wanted to shout. Yet she controlled herself and tried to think of an explanation that wouldn't get her killed.

"He's working on a project," she said at last. "I'm just here helping him."

He nodded slowly and drummed his fingers on the table. "Well, whatever it is that you're doing, keep doing it."

"Why?" Hermione asked, her curiosity igniting like a spark in a cloud of gas.

"Because I just did some quick tests and his viral load is the lowest it's been, well, since I started seeing him nearly three years ago."

Her eyes widened. Hope bloomed inside her. Maybe his body was fighting it off!

"Do not get overexcited," Smythe censured. "It could be temporary and it may mean nothing in the long run."

She knew that he had to say that; a look into his eyes proved that he did not believe it. He was hoping, too. She found herself liking Tiresias Smythe more and more, and not just because he had delivered the first decent news since this whole mess began. He cared about Lucius. He wanted him to live and it wasn't for the prestige that would come from curing the only living magical victim of HIV.

At last he stood up and offered her a raw smile. "I know that I am leaving him in good hands." As an afterthought, he added, "Make sure he eats, and if he is not up by 8 o'clock this evening, wake him. He needs to take those pills."

Hermione nodded and accompanied him to the fireplace. "Thank you, Healer Smythe."

"Any time you need me, just call my name into the floo. It will alert me," he held up what looked to be a slightly modified muggle pager, "and I'll get to you as soon as possible." With that, he took a handful of powder, called out an address, and was gone in a whirl of green heatless flame.

* * *

She didn't have to wake him; Lucius dragged himself out of bed a few hours later. Hermione was on the couch reading. He spared her a glance and then collapsed into his desk chair, looking as if he wanted nothing more than to just go back to sleep. After a few minutes had passed, he spoke without looking at her.

"Did Smythe come to check on you?"

"Yes."

He nodded, now turning a sardonic eye on her. "You're going to live?"

"Yes."

"Hm," he said, "that makes one of us."

She warred with herself. He might not take kindly to knowing that Smythe had discussed him with her, but if he knew that his viral count was improving, maybe it would give him some hope. He had very little of that and sometimes hope made all the difference.

"He checked you, too," she dared. "He said you're doing better than you have since he started seeing you."

"It is charming that he felt it necessary to discuss my health with you."

She frowned. Nothing – he had no reaction to the good news at all. "Did you hear what I said? You're improving!"

"Today, Miss Granger," he said wearily. "But what about tomorrow?"

"What about it?" she demanded, aware that her voice was gaining volume as she shot to her feet. She rubbed her temples and paced a small oval, agitated. "You of _all_ people, Lucius, should be aware of how strong the mind-body connection is. If you had any kind of optimism at all, it might help you recover!"

"From what I have heard, there is no recovery from this," he replied, infuriatingly calm. "Just because you are willing to fill yourself with false hope does not mean that I am."

"You're a wizard, a pure-blood, as you so often like to point out! The rules are not the same as they are for muggles," she argued.

"The other one was a pure-blood wizard, too, and he is dead." Lucius sighed. "I think I like you better when you are avoiding me."

Hermione stamped her foot. "I think I liked you better when you had the gall to hope for something, even if it was the extermination of my kind!"

_You do not mean that._

She slumped back onto the couch, knowing that he was right. Resting a hand over her eyes, she spoke quietly.

"I don't understand, Lucius. You have more money than God and you could be pumping it into finding a cure. Instead you're taking muggle drugs and waiting to die. You _want_ to die."

"There is a difference between making peace with your fate and wanting it."

"There is also a difference between making peace and giving up."

He chuckled. "I am no Gryffindor, Miss Granger, programmed so that I must perseverate everything ad nauseum. A Slytherin has no qualms about giving up; it must happen when things become disadvantageous. There is no shame in it."

For some reason, his rhetoric incensed her. Before she knew what she was doing, she had launched her book at him. He ducked it, wearing an expression of muted shock, but her outburst had only just started. She was on her feet and towering over him, as much as she could, anyhow, with every fiber of her five foot four being.

"_This_ is how you talk about your life?" she shouted, feeling blood pound in her ears. "As something that's _disadvantageous_? I will tell you what's _disadvantageous,_ Malfoy! Being DEAD! Especially to you, because if Hell is real, you're going to it!"

His eyes narrowed and his temper rose suddenly. She saw it swirl into his azure eyes like a maelstrom. He rose from his seat, uncomfortably close because of how brazenly she had advanced, and he seized her upper arms before she could evade him.

"Going to it?" he hissed, giving her a shake. "_Going to it?_ Foolish girl, I am already there! I have been there most of my life!" His face contorted in a combination of rage and despair. "The devil is no stranger…be he in the mirror or the shadow…"

His voice had gone flat and his eyes were distant. Hermione stayed very still, aware that his hands were clenching too tightly to be comfortable and that there would probably be bruises. His words, as they had proven to do so many times already, transfixed her, running through her head again and again.

…_be__ he in the mirror…_

Slowly, his fingers loosened.

_…or the shadow…_

He returned to himself, fighting off his dark nostalgia. Then he pushed her gently to arm's length and let go.

"I did not bring you here so that you could concern yourself with my welfare. It is a burden I don't expect you to take on, especially since I haven't bothered to myself, and frankly I have no understanding of why you would want to. I brought you here because…" he looked like he was in pain as he trailed off.

"Because?" she asked in a tiny voice.

After a few more tense seconds, he straightened up and met her eyes. "Because."

And she got no more out of him, verbally or otherwise; he stepped around her and strode away.

* * *

His retreat didn't last long. Hermione marveled at it when he returned to the common space and sat at his desk, freshly bathed and a little more awake. She was realizing now the depth of the changes within him.

There were three tiers to consider. At the bottom there was Lucius Malfoy as she had known him in school: only a hair's breadth from evil, a walking broadcast of foul propaganda. In the middle there was Lucius as she had seen him in the final battle. There the walls had been chipped away, boiling him down to what he was – a man trying to save his family, a father desperate to save his son. He was remorseful then, but perhaps only that he had put his family in danger. Still, he had tried to make a few amends by donating a hefty sum to the repair and reconstruction of Hogwarts and by testifying against other Death Eaters. That had earned him a lot of scorn, but it was all whispers; people were still afraid of him and probably always would be.

At the top there was this new Lucius, the man she was coming to know layer by layer. There were parts of him that were still odious and that might never change, but there were parts of her that were odious, too. She knew she could be terribly bossy and that she had been called a know-it-all for a reason. Lucius, in comparison, had a penchant for nettling her and for overstepping boundaries, but those things were so benign considering his previous predilections.

He had a temper, yet it was more controlled than she had ever expected. He was capable of humor and kindness. He was introspective, pragmatic, and dangerously intelligent. She was becoming more and more certain that this was the _real_ Lucius Malfoy. He had no reason to hide from her; she already knew several of his darkest secrets and she was bound by the Vow. Whatever transpired here would exist only between them. In the past that had frightened her, but…as she contemplated the way his left hand idly fiddled with a strand of his hair while he wrote, she realized that it didn't frighten her anymore.

Her stomach growled. It reminded her of Smythe's request that she make sure Lucius ate. With only a very slight degree of apprehension, she set her book aside and cleared her throat.

"What do you want for dinner?"

"I'm not hungry," he murmured. "Do what you like."

"You have to eat."

He turned. "Has Smythe recruited you for his campaign of terror?"

She had to smile. "That's a bit dramatic, isn't it?"

"Has anyone ever forced _you_ to eat?"

Hermione shook her head, but she knew that some visits to the Burrow bordered on forcible feeding. "It's irrelevant, anyway. You need to keep your strength up and you know it." He opened his mouth to retort and she plowed on, precluding whatever he had been about to say. "I'm well aware that you don't care, but if you waste away you'll never finish the book."

He made an unappreciative face at her. Then, resolutely and perhaps a bit stubbornly, he repeated, "Do what you like."

She stared at him in amazement. Not two hours before he'd been in a rage and raised finger shaped bruises on her arms; now he seemed to be in good humor, if a little obstinate. It reminded her of when they had gone into the town. Merlin, had that been only a few days ago? She had been pleasantly shocked by his patience with Paolo, his indulgence of the dirty old woman (she had since figured out what she said about Lucius), and his relative ability to behave like a normal human being – at least until he'd had his little fit of sadistic humor and she ended up pinned to the ground by an assailant who didn't touch her.

His moods were quite labile, apparently, and about as predictable as a traffic accident. She supposed he was allowed; she might be moody, too, if she were him, and copious amounts of medication probably didn't help. Shaking her head, she gave up and went off to find Jo-Jo. She would ask the house elf to prepare whatever struck her fancy and then try again with His Highness Lucius the Anorexic.

She found the elf in the kitchen scouring a set of ancient pots and pans; they looked like real, hand-shaped copper. Hermione was impressed.

"Is Miss Granger hungry?" Jo-Jo asked, immediately abandoning the cookery.

"Yes," she nodded. "Please prepare dinner for Master Lucius and me."

"What would you like?" The elf looked positively ecstatic at having something to do.

That was the part she hadn't figured out yet. She was in one of those moods where she was hungry but had no idea what she wanted to eat. Thoughtfully she touched her mind to Lucius's. It surprised her that he was receptive in spite of the fact that he didn't say anything. She merely felt a sensation that let her know that he was listening.

_Is there anything you don't like to eat?_ She posed the question and wondered if he would even deign to respond, given his prior dismissal. With her luck she would ask the house elf to make something he hated and she'd have even more of a struggle on her hands. It fit, since he was acting rather like a petulant child. She'd take that over some of his darker moods, though…

_I detest eggplant._ With that quiet admission, his mind slammed shut. She didn't mind the shunning; he had ceded the battle to her, to _her_, Hermione Granger. Yes, it was a meaningless clash and one he would always lose, sooner or later, as hunger was an unavoidable constant in life…but that didn't diminish the way the victory made her feel.

She wondered, as she told Jo-Jo to make the first thing that came into her head (vegetable lasagna, no eggplant), about the strange way _he_ made her feel. Lucius made her hot and cold, passionate and apathetic, angry and relaxed…he was a whirlwind of contradictions and she responded in kind. Two years ago she had nearly died in his home without a squeak of protest from him and yesterday he had climbed into a tub of icy water to ensure that she stayed alive. Two _hours_ ago he had told her not to bother with being concerned over him and now he had caved to those very concerns. There really were two men in that pretty head of his.

He had halved her, as well. One part of her continued to rail at all that had happened, though it grew less powerful with each day. The other part felt too comfortable in his presence, was too accustomed to it, and would…miss him? Yes. If he left…_when_ he left, that confused half would miss him.

Hermione shook her head. It was _this_, the isolation, the connection, and his task – the dismantling of his soul while she watched – that made it possible. To see him struggle with his own life was humanizing. The fact that he didn't treat her like dirt anymore certainly helped. She did realize that it might only be because he now viewed _himself_ as dirt and dirt could mingle with dirt. She might be hoping in vain that he had really learned his lesson when it came to blood purity. Somehow, though, she didn't think she was wrong about him.

She waited in the kitchen for Jo-Jo to finish cooking, to the point that the elf became anxious. Hermione had to assure her several times that she was not evaluating her work; she merely needed time to think away from the man of the house. Jo-Jo nodded with wide eyes and resumed her cooking.

She had ten more days with him. Ten. Confusion and a fair amount of trepidation coiled in her gut. If they had come this far in four days, where would they be in fourteen? Hermione swallowed. She had no bloody idea, and that was a very uncomfortable feeling.

People were bound to reach higher levels of intimacy when isolated with one another. It was just human nature. They were both the bearers of inquiring minds and wanted very strongly to understand the other. Curiosity wasn't unhealthy…

Until it was.

"Would Miss Granger like dinner in the dining room?" Jo-Jo asked, interrupting her thoughts.

"No. Just let me have the plates, I'll bring them up."

* * *

As she ascended from the bowels of the villa, a roaring sound reached her. What on earth was that? She frowned, walking a little quicker, the levitated plates floating behind her. Just then, a loud, low rumble filled the room and she relaxed. That was thunder, and the roar was the sound of heavy rain; the basement was so well insulated that she had not heard the storm begin.

She found Lucius actually sitting on the desk, Indian-style, watching the storm through open windows like a muggle would watch a television. He had put up some kind of shield charm; the rain dissipated when it hit, giving the impression of a window where there was none. His papers were nowhere to be seen.

She handed him the plate without a word. He took it in similar fashion. She could not comprehend what was so interesting about the thunderstorm; he picked at the food slowly and absently, resembling a person who was reading a book and eating at the same time. She knew that behavior very well. At last she couldn't stand it anymore and asked,

"What are you doing?"

"I'm not going to answer that."

She sighed, piqued by his tone. She was even more piqued when he set his plate down. He had eaten a quarter of it, if she rounded up generously. She was more than halfway through hers and his dainty appetite made her feel like a cow.

"You should eat more," she said shortly. "It's really very good."

"I don't dispute that," he responded. "However, you only requested that I eat. You never specified how much."

"It's not a bloody contract negotiation!" she seethed before she realized that he was baiting her on purpose. Hermione tamped down on her irritation, determined not to give him what he wanted.

"Have you ever watched a storm?" he asked, as if the previous exchange hadn't occurred.

"No."

Lightning flashed, bleaching the room, and a roll of thunder growled with enough force to rattle his fork against the plate. With a flick of his wand he banished the food. She was about to protest when he shifted himself to the left and gestured to her.

"Come, then."

Loathe as she was to follow any command of his, she went. Hesitantly she took her spot next to him on the desk. There was enough space, but it was hard to avoid having her knee touch his. Thankfully, he didn't seem to notice her maneuvering, because if he had, he would definitely have had a comment.

The large window filled her vision, making it seem like they were actually outside. She had never liked thunderstorms. She wasn't afraid of lightning, per se, but very wary of it because she knew what it was capable of. It was unpredictable and could travel long miles, striking out of a clear sky. And if it hit you, Merlin, she could only imagine.

The world outside raged. The trees bowed over in the wind, desperately clinging to their leaves. Rain fell in fat torrential drops faster than the earth could drink up. She jumped as a jagged bolt of lightning flashed between the villa and the town and hit the ground with a sizzle. Its afterimage was burned into her eyes, forking endlessly like a fractal made of pure energy.

She reached for his consciousness, wondering if this would be a contradiction like all else. The storm outside wouldn't mirror his state of mind; she was sure of it. His mind locked to hers and she gave a slight start. That had felt almost like a _caress._ It felt like…endorphins, or a breath of dental-grade nitrous oxide. Had he…could he…did this connection enable them to affect control over neurotransmitters, or was it just coincidence?

She found his mind placid and blank. The storm calmed him. He was so strange…yet it made her feel an unwieldy affection. With a slight frown, she pressed against the parameters of his mind, trying to do to him what he had done to her. How would one…

The dip of his eyelashes and the quiet intake of breath told her that she'd managed it. It was a willful flex of her mind, a grasp for some ill-defined part of his. It couldn't be explained, really, because all the words that existed were concrete and this was completely intangible. A look at him told her that he didn't realize she had done it on purpose; perhaps he hadn't, either. How far could this connection go? What could they _do_ to one another?

She couldn't suppress a shudder, which he mistook for distaste. Thank Merlin.

"The storm does not impress you?"

"Impress isn't the right word," she said quietly.

They sat in silence for a few more moments and the storm began to taper off. There was another one in the distance, flashing sporadically between clouds rendered invisible by night. His candle had gone out; they were bathed in darkness save for the occasional strobe of the lighting across their bodies.

"Why do you like it?" she whispered. "The storm, I mean."

It was a long time before he answered.

_Sometimes it is good to be reminded of what true power is._

Hermione turned her eyes back to the preamble of the second storm. He was right. This was real power; none of man's petty foibles and delusions of grandeur could hold a candle to it.

He shifted and the knee she had tried so hard to avoid brushed against hers. The contact was like its own lightning strike, sending ripples of electricity scattering beneath her skin. She stifled her reactivity, hoping that he wouldn't sense it. He shouldn't impact her like that. He shouldn't…

And his hand, cautiously placed on her thigh just above the knee, should not impact her, either. It should not drive wicked things into her imagination. The languid movement of his body as he twisted…the knowledge of what his face looked like even though she couldn't see it…the creak of the old desk as his other hand found stability, and…oh, the gentle graze of his lips as they found the corner of hers _definitely_ shouldn't have done anything to her.

But he did, and the pulse of pleasure in her brain could have been hers or his or both. The tremor of his breath as he hesitated, millimeters from her lips, destroyed the last of her resistance. That shaky exhalation conveyed everything.

She kissed him. He responded instantly with lips that knew how to please. Lips that _wanted_ to please. Given permission, there was no more diffidence; he kissed her for the first time like he had already kissed her a million times and knew exactly what to do. His tongue touched the crux of her upper lip and she was helpless to resist him. The need to taste him, to meet him in this duel, was overwhelming. And he fought well, his tongue sparring hers between soft caresses of lips and teeth. His kisses were like all of him: fraught with paradox. He was tender, gentle, but also demanding; it woke an urge inside her that she didn't even know she had. She slid her fingers into his hair and sought to capture him.

And he let her. He let her commandeer his hot mouth, let her kiss him instead of the other way around. The storm began to thrash beyond the windows and for every ounce of tranquility he found in it, there was an ounce of unrest blistering in her mind, even as she braved a gentle tug at his hair to turn his neck to a better angle.

She should not be doing this. She knew it peripherally, but there was no logic in the dark room. Not when his hand inched along her thigh in a light yet scorching stroke and certainly not when he was giving her the best snog she'd ever had.

How was that possible? How was it…? Her thoughts were curtailed when his lips left hers and trailed to her neck. She released his hair and had to put her palms onto the desk for fear of tipping over. His mouth made her want to lean back and arch her body for greater contact. All she could hear was the soft, quickened rustle of his breath as he let his mouth work. Oh, please, God, let him put his tongue in her ear again. Even the thought of it made her so aroused that it hurt.

His teeth scraped lightly at her pulse, followed by his tongue tasting its ferrous rush through the skin. She was beginning to lose her mind. He was, too, his mind but never his control; his hand was restless on her leg, yearning to touch. Somehow he held it at bay. Somehow…and she wished he wouldn't.

He returned to her lips and now passion invaded their kiss. It was ardor fanned by need, want, desperation, confusion, everything, flowing from his mind to hers and back. She didn't know which emotions were hers and which were his. It didn't matter. Together they were more. Together they were taking a sledgehammer to those walls and a flamethrower to those old identities.

Everything else was fading away. It was a storm in a teacup outside and a hurricane inside. God…if he would…_she_ would…they…words were not working any more. She tried for that strange mental touch again.

The hitched gasp that pried his lips from hers told her she had been successful. She went for his neck, finding the pleasant texture of stubble above the pounding of his carotid. The river of his compromised blood was beneath her lips and she wanted to siphon it from him, boil those little bits of retrovirus until they were nothing more than lysed fragments of amino acids…she wanted to force him back to purity through sheer willpower. She wanted _him_ to want that…

The vengeful desire to osculate some fight into him would have gone unchecked if not for the sudden presence of light and the trill of the house elf's voice.

"Jo-Jo has brought dess--" she stopped, aghast, and then squeaked the last syllable, "ert."

They came out of it slowly, eyes squinting against the light as sense trickled in. It seemed to take him longer to escape the fog and even when Hermione drew away, his eyes were a bit glazed. She managed to turn to the house elf, fighting embarrassment, horror, and a very incongruous sense of disappointment.

Jo-Jo looked as though she wanted to cry. "Jo-Jo is so sorry! Jo-Jo did not mean to interrupt!"

Hermione unfolded her legs from the desk and slid down. Lucius was still in a daze.

"It's all right, Jo-Jo," she heard herself say. "I'll take those."

The elf handed her the bowls – chocolate mousse by the look of it – and shrank away. "Jo-Jo will go punish herself now, Miss."

Hermione opened her mouth to speak but Lucius beat her to it.

"No, Jo-Jo. I forbid it."

"Y-yes, Master," the elf stammered, and then disapparated.

Hermione put the bowls down mechanically where she had been sitting a minute before. The feeling of surrealism was beginning to transform into panic. She stared at him with a clenching feeling in her chest and churning in her gut. He had his head in his hands like someone with a bad headache, and a probe of his mind showed her that the roar of desire inside him had not gone down.

It had all but gone extinct in her. Terror overwhelmed her defenses, casting white spots over her vision. She had just…and liked it…and might have…

"Go," he said quietly, "if you must."

* * *

Blood swished in her ears, ebbing and flowing, as she packed. Her movements were jerky and panicked. She didn't know exactly what it was that terrified her about what had just happened. He hadn't forced her to do it. In fact, it had been downright enjoyable. It must be that it was…

Him.

Hermione choked back tears. This wasn't supposed to happen. She was supposed to hate him, barely tolerate him! Yes, she'd entertained the thought of this because there was an obvious attraction between them (and she did like a bad boy, not that she'd _ever_ admit it), but never in a million years did she think it would actually result in anything! The man equated her with pond scum and she felt much the same about him.

The black lacy knickers at the bottom of her bag mocked her. She was insane. _Insane._ This was Lucius Malfoy. There was no good in him. This was all manipulation, clever scheming to take advantage of the situation. It made perfect sense. While he had to deal with her, why not try to enjoy all that she offered?

_You're wrong_, her mind whispered. _That was what he would have done in the past. He isn't the same person._

She knew that small voice of reason was right. Those had not been manipulative kisses or touches. Nor was it an attempt to gain any kind of power; he had _given_ her power, letting her set her own pace and exploring his mouth as she pleased. He just…genuinely desired her.

That didn't ease her fear. He was sick and dying, and even if he hadn't been, the rot of darkness inside him would have caught up eventually. There was no use in getting into this. There was not enough left of him to love.

A tear slid down her cheek. She knew it was a lie. There were indications everywhere. The absence of bigotry, the kitten, her rent, his behavior when she was ill, the letter of explanation, the way he would allow himself to be nagged into doing things, his refusal to allow the house elf to punish herself, and the fact that he desired a witch of "questionable" blood at all…

The man was turning a corner. And, as frightening as it was, she knew that she held a very great amount of sway over whether he continued onto a new boulevard or reverted back from whence he had come. Hermione sighed heavily. Her conscience wouldn't allow her to be responsible for halting his progress. He _needed_ this.

Not necessarily her compliance with his hormones. No, that wasn't what she meant. He needed her counterbalance…and she needed to have her faith in something other than books restored. She needed to see that change was possible, that his inside could match his outside, beauty for beauty, and…that she could save him. It was perfectly ridiculous, she knew, one of those romantic bursts of idealism that most people would laugh at. Yet every cliché existed for a reason. If a man had never been saved by the love and patience of one good woman, the stories wouldn't abound.

Whoever thought Harry Potter had a hero complex had never met her on a bad day. Thankfully, Lucius didn't seem to be as hopeless a cause as SPEW. Now, if only she could get _him_ to see that…

With a deep breath, Hermione stood up. She didn't know what she was going to say to him or if she would have to say anything at all. But she had made up her mind: she wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

A/N: So what did you guys think of their first kiss? ;)


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

Author's Note: Someone had asked me, wouldn't people be trying to figure out who the author of Faim is? And wouldn't there be enough to possibly point a finger at Lucius, no matter how careful he is? This is an issue I neglected for the first 10 chapters in favor of developing the relationship between Lucius and Hermione, but the answer is absolutely – and the impact of that (among other things) starts here.

Some responses:

xoxomrshmalfoyxoxo: Thank you! I aim to please, here's a new chapter for you.

Lucas'Mom: Yes, I was actually listening to storms roll through as I wrote it - nothing like atmosphere to jump-start the muse. I know Hermione's reaction was frustrating, but she is definitely the type who would have a bit of a freakout, simply because she can't turn her brain off.

Faerlyte: Sorry for keeping you awake, I hope it was worth it! Yes, I love me some Lumione and I really appreciate your positive comments.

Earwen: Ha, I am triumphant! Hehe. Thanks as always.

Azrulai: Thank you. Characters like Lucius are a blank canvas and while many choose to portray him as an utter git, I like to figure out why a person would behave the way he does. It leads me into some interesting territory, as this story is proving. I hope I continue to live up to your expectations. :)

snobunni: Thanks!

Lady Verity: Yes, I know I can get quite emotional when I'm writing, but I have to have a stopping point or I risk depressing MYSELF! Hehe. This chapter will have some more angst, as will the next one, but after that things will start heading up. But keep in mind this is a pairing beset by many obstacles, so everything won't be peaches and roses right away. Thanks for reading and I hope I can wick a few more reviews out of you. ;)

Alchemelia: Thank you!

Pookiepantsmcpoo: Excellent penname. Thanks for your compliments.

Fahzzyquill: Thank you. Everything really just fell together for their kiss; I hope I can continue to do that.

Duco Lacuna: I'm glad - you build up to things and you can only hope that people enjoy the payoff!

SlytherinDragoon: Yes, me too; flat characters are so boring. Lucius is much more enjoyable when you give him some depth.

LoneCayt: I'm honestly not sure how many I've lost, but I'm ok with it. I know it's a squicky topic. What I'm happy about is that people recognize the quality of the writing, regardless of the subject matter. Thanks for your support!

TheCresentMoonWritier: 'phenomenal', for future reference! hehe. Thank you!

Academic Dragon: Yeah, I've never been the type to throw my characters into a relationship too quickly. Thanks for reviewing!

Velvet Storm: Yes, Healer Smythe is very sharp...he's an unwavering ally, though, so don't worry. The thunderstorm was just too right for them, I'm glad others agreed! Hopefully you can find a handsome substitute to kiss during one of those Florida storms... ;)

uckpa: Thanks for sticking around. It means a lot to me. Someone already guessed who Narcissa snogged and more than snogged; it's Snape! gasp

On with the show...

* * *

She had looked everywhere for him. Or at least she thought she had; it was a gargantuan house and he knew it better than her, so it was possible that he had sought a hidden place in the wake of whatever strange chemistry had exploded on them. It didn't seem like something he would do, but she could no longer pretend that he was predictable.

He hadn't left. His stack of parchment, quill, and ink were on the desk, neatly stacked and weighted down as always. His pills were still there, too. One bottle had fallen over, blown by the wind that had picked up in the aftermath of the storm. With a sigh, Hermione closed the window.

It occurred to her that now might be a perfect time to do the snooping she had wanted to do earlier in the week. He was either out or in full retreat, so there was little chance of him walking in on her while she did it. She just wanted a look at all his medications, was all…and perhaps those ever-tempting pages. He hadn't yet used her name. What gumption he had, kissing her before he would consent to speaking her name…

That made her decision. With one last guilty glance around (she really was terrible at this), she sat in his chair. She had never been much of an investigator. People tended to spy on one another; she had seen the other girls in her dormitory do it and had no doubt that they had gone through her things at least once. Thankfully, her possessions were generally uninteresting to anyone who didn't enjoy books. Though she had sometimes wondered what secrets her roommates' trunks held, she had never given in to temptation. Not even when Lavender Brown was 'dating' Ron – and the temptation had been extreme at the time.

So she was wholly unaccustomed to this. Her hands trembled as she pulled the pill bottles toward her. Goodness, she was going to have to look up some of the drug names, as she had never heard of them before. However, none of them were anything she had suspected. No sedatives or sleep aids that she recognized, no anti-anxiety drugs, no anti-psychotics – nothing. It was entirely possible that there were other medications elsewhere but that was a line she wouldn't cross. Merlin only knew what she would find if she went through his actual belongings.

She placed the bottles back on the corner of the desk. They were out of order and she didn't remember how they had been arranged before she moved them. There were people in the world who wouldn't notice such a thing, but Lucius would. He would know that she had gone through them or at least moved them. She was absolutely miserable at spying on people like this. He would either be angry at her or amused by her incompetence in an area that she had never wanted to be competent in.

Ah, but she could tell him the wind had scattered the bottles and she had just put them back on the desk. That was a plausible excuse. Problem solved. Hermione blew a breath out between her lips. The stack of parchment was steadily growing; this book would be longer than Faim, that was for sure. She hoped that whatever she was about to read would not be completely horrific, but if it was, it was her own fault for not being able to control her curiosity.

She lifted the paperweight and set it aside. She felt more guilty doing this than looking at his medication. He had made it clear that he didn't want her to read it before he was done. Even if it had been written in the form of gentle chastisement, he had explicitly indicated what he wanted. There had to be a reason for it and she wasn't sure she wanted to find out what it was.

She picked up the top page and turned it over. It was three quarters full of his elegant scrawl and there was a splotch after the last word, as if he had rested the quill there while lost in thought. Little things like that made him endearing; it made her feel like she could get inside his head, if only for the fifteen seconds he hesitated before starting a new sentence.

She raised her eyes to the top of the page.

_…and I wanted to strangle her, to wrap my hands about her neck and squeeze until only crushed bone and sinew remained. Instead I took my son by the hand and walked away from her. My anger didn't abate for long, long minutes; even after I had passed off the child to my wife and tried to isolate myself in the parlor, it goaded itself into a greater furor. When my father stepped in to cast a disapproving look meant to propel me back into social company, I think he saw it. His eyes went dark and did not lose track of me for many minutes afterwards. Even after I excused myself to the loo, it felt as though he was just behind me, watching me._

_ I felt no such violence toward him. He had made life difficult for me. He had been cruel, distant, cold, and unforgiving. But he was predictable and he had never once betrayed me. It is rather sad, though, when that is all the good a man can find in his sire._

_ I returned to them eventually but I was careful to keep my mind trained elsewhere. Once the anger had passed a cold, hard determination settled in its place. I would get through this and then there would be no more. I had tried my best to allow my son to know his grandparents, because I was glad to have known mine. It was not my fault – nor his – that he was better off not knowing them._

Hermione frowned and turned back a page. She was desperately curious to know what events had precipitated him cutting ties with his parents. She scanned the page. Ah. There…

_I heard her shrill voice, chastising my son for something. It raised a black defensive anger in me; the gall of her, to think that she had any place disciplining my child. She would never win any awards for her mothering. When I was younger I would accept her guilty love, but having a child of my own had done something to me. I could barely stand to be in the same room as her and her hypocrisy._

_ I went to them, summoning my control. It was possible that the boy had done something that warranted censure. I could see upon arrival that he had; one of the family portraits was singed almost beyond recognition, victim to a game of exploding snap played on the decorative table beneath it. I had done the same in my youth and received the hiding of my life because it was the portrait of my father's favorite aunt._

_ "The house elf did it, Father!" my son pleaded, and convincingly at that. Let it not be said that he isn't clever; he knew of my intense dislike for house elves. I might have believed him if I didn't recognize the burn pattern on the painting. Remembrance of the way it looked had been forever branded into my mind by a beating that held the top spot for most painful experience of my life – until the first time I was hit with the Cruciatus. _

_ My mother put her hands on her hips. "He likes to tell stories, just like his daddy."_

_ I don't know if she spoke before she thought or if she actually meant to take me back to the day that had fractured my trust. In any case, I nearly blacked out with anger. It came so swiftly that it blinded me. She didn't try to backpedal or make apologies for her statement. Indeed, she didn't even seem to realize the verbal sin she had committed. That she could have _forgotten_ the day I had faced every fear I had to tell her what had been done to me, or that she still believed it was something I made up for attention – that made me murderous. My blood thundered in my ears…"_

That was where the page ended and where the next one picked up. She could feel his anger radiating off the page. It was one hundred percent justified. Really, she wanted to choke the life out of his mother, too. She was not so sure that she would have let her child anywhere near her parents if they were anything like his.

She reached for another page, but something stopped her. He obviously had his reasons for asking her not to read until he was finished, just like she had her reasons for wanting to be called by her given name. Biting her lip, Hermione replaced the pages and put the paperweight on top of them.

She sat back, blowing a piece of hair out of her face. Then she twirled around in the chair – it was the kind that spun. She had never realized how comfortable it was, probably because she had been hesitant to sit in it. She had also never realized how accustomed she had become to Lucius's presence. Now, without it, the house felt bereft.

Hermione sat for a while longer, lost in thought. Then she realized it was getting late and it would probably be best if she didn't drop off to sleep in his chair. She had no idea what his mood would be like when he returned; regardless, she would rather not be in the way of it.

She was just about to stand up when there was a noise at the window. It startled her until she realized it was just an owl pecking at the glass. Who was sending mail this late? Leaning over the desk, she opened the window to admit the owl. The bird was wet and miserable; it held out its plastic-wrapped parcel and fluffed its feathers grumpily.

Hermione took the parcel and cast a drying charm on the owl. It blinked at her, confused by its sudden dryness. With a chuckle, she went in search of something to reward the bird with and found the remnants of Lucius's dinner. Evidently Jo-Jo was still too fearful of interrupting a non-existent liaison to have cleaned up. No matter. Hermione set the plate in front of the owl and it dug in gratefully. She spared a moment to wonder about owl nutrition; if people were constantly giving the birds whatever they had lying around, it couldn't be good for them, could it? Ah well, she wasn't a veterinarian or an animal healer and she couldn't recall any prohibition against it.

The owl must have flown a long way. As she unwrapped the mail that was mummified in layers of plastic wrap the bird settled into a brief sleep on the windowsill. She didn't mind its company so she let it be. When she finally extracted the booklet from the plastic, she saw that it was for Lucius. A note was stuck to the front.

_Lucius,_

_You might find the article on page 36 interesting._

_ P. Netherwood_

The signature was one of those stamps that said that whoever P. Netherwood was, he signed an awful lot of papers. In spite of herself she did not put the magazine down. It was called The Critiquill. The subtitle read 'For discerning readers of wizard literature.' Her eyes widened. Why had she, the queen of books, never heard of this magazine?

She opened it, aware of how easily she was fitting into her own stereotype at the moment. She didn't care. There were reviews and analyses of books she hadn't heard of before, eighty percent of which sounded riveting. The remaining twenty percent seemed like the kind of esoteric literature that perhaps five people would appreciate. She read straight through until page 36, noting at least three books that she was going to buy as soon as she got the chance. When she turned the glossy page Netherwood had mentioned, her mouth fell open.

_An Open Letter to the Author of Faim_

_By Aloysius Pound_

_We here at The Critiquill have fastidiously resisted the pull of your book. We confess ourselves guilty of literary snobbery; we believed that no book so popular with the masses could be of any value to true scholars. However, in the six months the book has been out, it has garnered acclaim from critics all over the world, many of whom we consider to be excellent judges of quality. Therefore, two of our reviewers, C.P. Bartholomew and Regina Roundtree, have at last tackled the tour de force that is Faim. They had this to say:_

_CPB: 5/5 stars_

_Faim is a chillingly entertaining read. It overflows with the ebbing sanity of the protagonist, who may indeed be the antagonist as well. His prose is incisive, blunt, but also contains an introspective beauty that lets the reader know that this author is nothing short of a wordsmith. This book does what few in the history of storytelling have done; it weaves a tapestry of people, places, and events that are singularly disturbing in a way that neither beatifies nor condemns the protagonist for his role in it. I have never before read a story in which the main character was so abhorrent yet so justified. He has drawn a solid line between hating a person and hating what a person does. In these post-war times it lends a little more understanding to the fact that those who wronged us are people, too – which is just as uncomfortably humanizing as the rest of the book's raw grasp for control in a world where it is in short supply. If you haven't read it, get to your nearest book shop or library and do so. This is one bandwagon I am happy to jump on._

_RR: 4.5/5 stars_

_I found myself unable to put this book down. In spite of its infuriating ambiguity (which is the cause of my slight rating detraction), one can conceptualize the characters, the setting, and most importantly the mood. Emotions are sometimes hard to convey in words but this author is quite gifted at finding ways to express the unexpressible. The story sizzles with anger, sexuality, and uneasy triumph. It simultaneously revels and rages in the human capacity for schadenfreude. Faim puts the reader in a curious state of mind, one in which everything seems to be cast in a different light. Because of this, the power of this author's story is so visceral. He almost forces you to think on topics most of us would rather leave alone, for if you want to know the rest of his story you must face the uncomfortable truths and lies. Overall, this is not just the story of a man damned almost from birth; it is also an insightful commentary on the state of the wizarding world and its many conflicts. It may be difficult for some to get through but it is definitely worth the effort._

_Our reviewers have spoken; Faim is worth the purchase. I, however, find myself more curious about things other than the story. Namely, I wonder about you, author, the anonymous person who crafted this 'memoir'._

_Who are you? Is this your story, or some fiction packaged as a memoir to gain attention? If it is, congratulations, sir, you have successfully created a new marketing scheme. Conversely, if Faim is really your story, I hope you have found peace in writing it. _

_I must warn you, though, that in winning us over you are now subject to our staff and readers' inquiring minds. We are curious and we will strive to unravel your mystery. Have you covered your tracks well, dear writer? Were you as careful as you should have been in disguising your identity? We are as interested in you as we are in your tales, perhaps more, so be advised that we will do our damnedest to unmask you. You had to know that in writing something so sensational, you would bring this attention upon yourself. We make no apologies, author, because we have the feeling that you make none for the tease of your genius._

_Yours,_

_Aloysius C. Pound & The Critiquill Staff_

Hermione put the magazine down. That had been high praise for a magazine she could already tell wasn't generally prone to giving much. However, it was a double-edged sword. She didn't doubt for a minute that the academia was buzzing over just who the author of Faim was. She knew Lucius was meticulous. The only people who knew the secret of his identity were her and his publisher. Of course, measures had been taken to prevent both of them from talking, but nobody was perfect…

What would happen if Lucius was found out? Faim alone was enough to put him back in prison; she was sure Soif would only add to the list of his sins. But was there a way, short of his own confession, to pin the activities in the books on him? He knew what he was doing when he wrote it. He had crafted a cage of truths that he could never be locked in. She expected nothing less of him, really.

He wouldn't be discovered. She wouldn't tell even after the Vow was lifted from her. The publisher wouldn't, because then his fortune would be lost. If someone else managed to put the pieces together, Lucius could deny it or dance around it. She was fairly certain that the Ministry would not issue an order for Veritaserum based on the possibility that he _might_ have written a book about things he _might_ have done decades ago…

And she couldn't forget the terminus that loomed in his future. If she knew him, and she was beginning to think that she might, at least a little, he would reveal himself posthumously. A part of him yearned for full disclosure. Another part of him wanted to spite the system that had screwed and glorified him. He would enjoy the knowledge that he had made people like what he had to offer and then taunted them with his glaring absence for the consequences. He was exceptionally good at avoiding consequences – most of the time.

Feeling very exhausted all of a sudden, she closed the magazine and left it on the desk. He would see it when he came back. The owl was still dozing on the window ledge. It wouldn't do any harm to let it stay the night; she could hear another storm kicking up outside and the poor thing had already had one harrowing flight. Hermione blew out the candles and went to bed.

* * *

He still wasn't back when morning came. It worried her. He had missed a dose of his medication. Would that be problematic? What if he had really gone? Abandoned the book and her and everything? He wouldn't do that, would he? There hadn't even been words exchanged. It wasn't a fight.

Hermione chewed her lip as she sat in the bath. Normally she was good at putting herself into the mindset of another, but in this case she couldn't begin to fathom what Lucius was thinking.

"Oh, relax," she said out loud. It had only been one night. In all likelihood, he would be back before the day was out. Everything would be awkward but fine.

* * *

He was not back by nightfall. She had caved to curiosity and checked his room; all his things were still there. Now she had passed from simple worry to full blown concern. He had not gone and done anything stupid, had he? Surely he would not be so upset by one misstep that he would…

She apparated back to London. It was pointless since she couldn't really go around asking after him; people would think she was crazy. There was nothing in the newspapers, though. No news was good news, right?

She slept terribly that night. She had instructed Jo-Jo to wake her the moment Lucius reappeared. Hour after hour, the elf was absent. Hermione knew the little thing was just as worried as she was. She had even gone to Malfoy Manor and asked the other elves if the master had been about; they said no. Lucius was well and truly missing in action.

She had tried to touch his mind and beseech him to come back. The connection was still there but all she got was a stony silence on his end. She pressed against it, hurled thoughts to it, begged it, but it never wavered. Conversely, no matter how open she left her mind, he never once tried to grasp for it.

* * *

She was lucky if she got two hours of sleep. When she woke she knew she had to do something with herself or she would go mad. She left a note for him on the desk to please, please let her know, somehow, that he was all right, on the odd chance that he might return while she was out. Then, with a queasy resolve, she walked out the door.

The beauty of the day mocked her. Inside she was a mess of worries; she imagined that if her consciousness could be assigned an image, it would look something like a house torn apart by a tornado. There would be bits of wood and brick and siding everywhere, a car flipped over, and the refrigerator six miles away in a bog.

She tried to concentrate on the sun as it beamed down at her. Its rays said that everything would be all right. It was too nice a day for upsetting events. There was a reason for his absence. There was a reason for everything. The trouble was, with him the reason was sometimes worse than the reality.

Distracted, she ran her hands along the sturdy sunflower stalks as she passed the field. They were a bit prickly; the sensation gave her something to focus on. Then there was wheat. She skimmed her hand around the silky stems, wondering what they would eventually be turned into. Flour? Pasta? Bread?

Too quickly she was walking into the small town. It was early but the piazza was booming; it seemed a bit overwhelming yet she forced herself to walk among the scurrying natives. Perhaps she would pick some vegetables and meats from the stalls and have Jo-Jo cook something…

The day wore on and she was amazed that she was shopping, buying trinkets and trying on pretty sundresses, when internally she felt close to panic. She had never been so worried for anyone in her life. Since the moment all this had begun, she was acutely aware of how easy it might be to tip his balance. She hoped to high heaven that she had not done it with her silly reaction to kissing him.

It had just been too much to process at once. Her mind couldn't reconcile how good it felt to kiss him and how cardinally wrong it was at the same time. Now that she had time to think, she could see that it wasn't wrong. He was a man, she was a woman. He had changed for the better and expressed a genuine, non-threatening attraction, which her body had responded to in kind. It was just her stupid brain that couldn't cope with the suddenness of it.

She loved her intellect, really she did, but sometimes it got in the way. She wanted to analyze everything. She wanted to assign logic and meaning to things that didn't necessarily involve either. Like kissing Lucius Malfoy. And worst of all, her mind always wanted to overrule her body, knowing that it was only a web of flesh and bone and sensory receptors. But just because it was didn't mean that it was _wrong._

Yes, liking, affection, and love were cognitive things. They were abstract mental concepts. But they were invariably intertwined with the body; that was why one's heartbeat quickened, one's stomach filled with butterflies, and one's skin tingled in proximity to the person they loved. Not that she loved him. But damn, did her body react to him…and she couldn't discount the fact that perhaps it knew better than her brain on this. Her brain was what remembered; her body could forget.

She tried on another dress. It was a little old-fashioned looking, cut like a dress that a woman would have worn in the 50s, but the pattern, colors, and details were modern. It was something she wouldn't have worn in England. She was not in England. The shopkeeper, a thirtysomething woman who looked like a transplant from a couture shop in Rome or Milan, anointed her in just the right accessories. Forty minutes later she walked out of the shop looking like a different person.

This worry for him was making her a different person. In fact, she was spending his money like it was going out of style, as if that could somehow bring him back. She was aware of it as she watched people go by beyond the veil of her sunglasses. More than a few gave her curious looks; dressed like this, she was mysterious, someone they wanted to know more about. Especially the men.

She trailed her hand in the clear water of the fountain she was leaning against. In the heat of the midday sun, Hermione wondered who she was hiding from. Very likely it was herself. It was the woman who desperately wanted Lucius Malfoy to come back, to stay in her life…and to kiss her again. More than kiss her…

She moved on. There were more shops and more things she didn't need. She tried to blow the remainder of the 700 Euros leftover from his ridiculous bestowal. But she found that as soon as she handed the last bill over, for another dress she'd be too self-conscious to wear once she returned home, more money materialized in her bag. And no matter what she did, it would not diminish. That son of a bitch had spelled her purse.

Hermione sat at a table at an outdoor café and drank sparkling water. It wouldn't do to get heatstroke again, because now there was no one around to take care of her. As the afternoon wore on, she returned to the food stalls and purchased an assortment of everything. The resourceful little house elf would be able to make something out of it…

So she trudged back up to the villa laden down with bags, not entirely sure where the day had gone or if she felt any better. Defense mechanisms were wonderful things, but in the long run they tended to make the situation worse…so lost was she in her ruminations that she missed the fact that the windows were open. She had left them closed.

When she walked in, though, it was impossible to miss the glaring fact that he was back. The bags fell from her hands, probably bruising the produce she had so carefully selected. She opened her mouth to speak and the words promptly died when she realized what he was about to do.

The stack of parchment that was Soif was in his hand. And that hand was quickly moving toward the fireplace, which glared and crackled with new flame. She saw it like it was slow motion. He was going to burn his manuscript.

"NO!" she shouted. It startled him enough that he paused. Slowly, he turned.

"Why are you still here?" His voice was hedged in ice.

"Don't do it, Lucius," she said softly, barely even comprehending his question. She worried for the manuscript like it was a hostage, a real live person that he could kill.

"I asked you a question!" he said sharply. "Why are you still here?"

"You never told me to leave!" she shot back. "And I'm not going to."

"Yes, you are." Confirming her fears, he turned and made the motion of throwing the papers into the fire. However, her summoning charm was quicker. The stack of parchment narrowly avoided the flames and flew across the room into her outstretched hand. When he turned, his face was livid.

"Get out."

"No." She tucked the papers into one of her bags and put the straps around her arm; he could not summon it unless he wanted to summon all of her. And if that happened, she would fight him tooth, nail, and spell, and she was certain that he had seriously underestimated her ability in an altercation when provoked.

"_Get out!"_ It was a shout this time, vicious and enraged. It stirred a slight peal of fear in her. He hadn't raised his voice to her before.

She stood her ground. "I won't. Not when you're like this."

"Like what?" he demanded, prowling in front of the fireplace. "Tell me what I am like!"

"Something's bothering you," she replied, trying to remain calm and placid in the hopes that it would bring him down from whatever anxiety was rattling him. "Just…just tell me what it is, and we'll talk about it, and you'll feel better."

He laughed, a harsh, choked sound. "What world do you live in? Because I should like to visit sometime. No…no, there is nothing to talk about, _now give me those fucking papers."_

She swallowed, fighting the urge to take a step back. He was frightening her. She could feel the air in the room shivering, wavering against the power of his anger. And something else, too, something she couldn't quite identify. He was walking the knife's edge, just barely containing himself. He was right to tell her to leave but she simply could not live with herself if he did anything stupid in her absence.

"All right," she said diplomatically, "maybe talking about it won't fix it, but neither will running away."

"Other people run away," he spat. "Why can't I?"

She could not believe she was about to say this. "You're not like other people."

Silence hung between them, punctuated by the crackle and pop of the wood in the fireplace.

He shook his head. Some of the anger had leached out of him, but none of the intensity. "No. I am _tired_ of the charade, tired to death. I am sick of pretending that things matter. _None _of it matters."

Hermione held the bag full of papers against her chest, her fingers twitching. What in the name of Merlin had happened? "It matters, Lucius. Millions of people have read your book--"

She couldn't have known it, but that was the wrong thing to say. His face contorted as his anger returned full force. It was so strong that she actually felt a current of electricity searing along her skin.

"_SHE_ read the book!" he thundered, interrupting her mid-sentence. "It was on her bleeding shelf!"

His long legs were carrying him toward her and her mind panicked. The bag of parchment fell to the floor as she struggled for her wand. Now she did back away, nearly stumbling on the heels she had purchased not three hours before. There was no point in getting hurt for a stack of parchment – but damned if she was going to let him destroy all the effort and artistry and the stupid thing that had dragged her into this situation in the first place!

She vanished the bag with a flick of her wrist, just as his fingers were about to close around it. He was very still. When at last he looked up at her, his eyes were unlike anything she had ever seen. She didn't think it was possible to layer so many emotions into one deadly glare. There was pain, fountains of it, and rage that made his pupils dilate into wide black pools. There was also hate; real, unadulterated, crackling hate. Anything she thought she had seen in his eyes on previous encounters now seemed like nothing more than casual disgust.

Hermione took another step back, her wand trained on him with a trembling hand. This was a dangerous game. If he wanted to destroy the book and never write another word, what did it matter to her? It was not her business if and when he quietly (or not so quietly) self-destructed. She should not care for the therapeutic value of telling his story, for he was the one who had made it so traumatizing in the first place. Aside from one encounter, he had made his own choices. He had done this to himself.

And yet, she couldn't suddenly stop caring. She didn't know when she'd started. It was outside her abilities as a compassionate person to walk away. In spite of the way he was looking at her, she believed in his word. She believed he wouldn't hurt her.

He rose to his feet with a slow grace that belied his ragged emotions. Then, in the space of a blink, he apparated away with a quiet pop. She stood frozen in his absence.

Oh, God. She had been right. He wouldn't hurt her…but he had never made any promises about not hurting himself.

* * *

A/N 2: It's important to note that Lucius is not just being an irrational brat here – there is a genuine reason for his behavior, which you'll discover in the next chapter (though I have hinted at it in this one). Can you guess why Lucius is rattled?


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note: One small warning: from this point forward, the story may contain flashbacks and references to SeriouslyEvilandFuckedUp!Voldemort. It won't be in every chapter, but I just wanted to give you a heads-up so you're not caught off guard.

Responses:

Black Petals: Thank you, compliments are always an ego boost.

Alchemelia: An interesting sort of point? Hehe, I think there's a compliment in there somewhere.

CoCo82: Again, award for most dedicated reviewer! Don't hyperventilate.

Cyranothe2nd: You're betting in the right area. Thanks for continuing to review. :)

Doodles Divine: Yes! Another reader converted. I'm glad you like my crazy plot.

Violynn: Thank you, thank you, and thank you. It takes a good writer to really sell Lumione, so I'm glad to be among their ranks!

LadyShard: Thank you. I know some people can't stand to not know how things end; glad you seem willing to tough it out while my muse does her thing. Lucius is a very interesting character to play with. I'm happy that people seem to really like my interpretation of him. As for karma, yes, I didn't want Lucius to get off scot-free, but at the same time I needed him to not be so beyond redemption that Hermione couldn't come to love him.

jenlee: Very astute - I love it when people pick up on my clues. You'll see the answer in this chapter. Thanks for reading!

What-Ansketil-Did-Next: More of the publishers and audience is coming, but for the next few chapters it will continue to focus heavily on Lucius and Hermione. Never forget about the inquiring minds at the Critiquill, though - Mr. Pound meant what he said in his open letter to Lucius.

darklady5289: Nope, Lucius gave his word that he isn't going to hurt her and he is going to stick by it if it kills him. You'll find out who it was in this chapter. :)

fahzzyquill: Thank you! This chapter is going to be pretty emotional, too, and you'll see who Lucius's tormenter is soon.

she is brighter: Don't worry, I can be very cryptic with my hints sometimes. You'll find out who it is now!

Drachegirl14: Excellent, another person brought into the world of Lumione. It's a great pairing if it's written well. Thank you for your compliments (and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't completely enamored with Lucius myself, at least my interpretation of him, and Jason Isaacs certainly helps.)

Azrulai: I hope you're enjoying your vacation! Thanks so much.

LoneCayt: You'll find out...and yes, I've been cursed many a time for my cliffhangers. Heroes is pretty bad with them. And you're honestly the first comment I've gotten about updating quickly - most people complain that I don't do it quickly enough! Thanks for displaying some patience. :)

MonDieu666: Thanks! Maybe you give Narcissa too much credit... ;)

loveismagic: Thank you! Lucius will be ok, I promise.

HarrowingGothling: Yes, you do indeed know what's going to happen...sneaky. :P Thanks for reviewing!

mangagirl3535: Ah, but the divorce is already finalized, with Lucius having signed and sent the papers. So no motive there. You'll see who it is soon, but good, solid theories!

TBooki: Thank you, I do so enjoy writing Lucius. :)

uckpa: Here it is! Take a deep breath! :)

Faerlyte: Thank you for your compliments. Yup, I'd be nervous faced with an enraged Lucius, too. Hermione just couldn't let him destroy the fruit of his labors, though.

VelvetStorm: Good questions. If Narcissa had told someone or revealed him, his connection to Hermione would have broken immediately and noticeably, so it's not that. And you want longer chapters? Good, cause this one is the longest to date! Could use some of that rain up here in Philly...send it up!

AcademicDragon: I try to do things as quickly as I can. I have way too many stories running concurrently right now, so I have to work in a kind of cycle where I update one, then the next, then the next, etc. Add in the fact that the muse is sometimes stubborn, and a few weeks to a month may go by between updates. Just the way it is, I'm afraid. Please don't dry up! Here's the next chapter, chock full of answers!

I think that's it. You guys really turned out for the last chapter, I hope you like this one as much! Buckle your seatbelts, lots of emotion ahead!

* * *

Hermione's mind exploded in panic. Where was he going? What was he…? Jesus Christ, he knew where her parents lived! What the hell was making him behave this way? _What the hell was he going to do?_

She leaned over, attempting to control her hyperventilation. So _this_ was what a panic attack felt like. She had to find him. He was going to lash out at somebody and it didn't matter if it was a stranger or himself. She had to stop him. She knew what he was capable of when he was incoherent with rage…

There was the small problem of there being NO BLOODY WAY to actually locate him. Trifling, really. She paced, her hands in her hair, ready to rip it out. She had lived through thirty-six hours of this already. She couldn't take any more, especially now that she had seen the state he was in.

Who or what had pushed him to this? She refused to take the blame for this one. It was not her panic after the kiss. He seemed like he had expected that. There had to be something else! If she figured it out, maybe it would shed some light on where he'd gone or what she could do to calm him. Unfortunately, the only clues she had were that he wanted to burn the fruit of his literary labors to ashes and that some unidentified 'she' had read his book and that infuriated him.

She was drawing a blank. Of all the times for her brain to fail her! Tears prickled at her eyes. For all she knew, he could be…no, she wouldn't believe it. He wasn't that irrational…was he? Impulsively, she picked up his inkpot and threw it against the wall. It shattered satisfyingly and black ink exploded against the stones like blood spatter.

Hermione would never know why breaking things had a calming affect, nor why looking at the slick drips of ink as they traveled down to the floor put order to her thoughts. Cause later, intervention now. That was what needed to happen. She would need help…

"Jo-Jo!" she shouted for the elf and the little thing appeared so quickly that the sound of the last 'o' was still echoing against the ceiling.

* * *

Ten minutes later she had her tag-team. It consisted of herself, Jo-Jo, and Tiresias Smythe, who had been rousted from lunch and was actually still wearing a lobster bib – until she reminded him of it and he discarded it. If he was irritated he didn't show it. In fact, he appeared ready to do battle.

"You know I'm not a psychiatrist or a mind healer, right?" Smythe asked, frowning.

"As long as you've got something that can calm him down, we'll be all right. We can worry about the rest later."

The healer shook his head. "It's an incredibly stressful situation he's in, but Lucius always seemed to have it together."

"He seems to have a lot of things," she muttered under her breath. She wasn't sure if Smythe heard it or not, and frankly she didn't care. Lucius had played his cards well with his healer, that much was obvious.

"You said yourself you don't know where to find him. What's the strategy?"

"Jo-Jo has already checked his home. He's not there. She's in the process of finding out the locations of all his other properties that the elves know of."

"And if he's not in any of those other properties?"

Hermione ran her hands through her hair. "I don't know."

"So we wait for the elf?"

She nodded. It wasn't the best plan, but it was a plan. Having a plan made her feel like she had some semblance of control. It didn't sit well with Smythe, either, apparently, for he stalked over to the window and leaned on the frame impatiently.

She paced. It seemed like Jo-Jo was taking a long time.

"Miss Granger?" Smythe's voice cut through her chaotic thoughts.

"What?"

"We may not have to look too far, after all." He was pointing out the window. She practically ran to him and leaned out, straining to find what he was indicating. It wasn't difficult. Down the path, amidst the field of sunflowers, there was…well, the best way to describe it was a disturbance. She knew without question that it was him. She could feel it from here.

Before Smythe could say or do anything else, she apparated. She hit the dusty road at a run and plunged into the sunflowers, remembering what it was like to chase little boys through them. This had an entirely different feeling.

She knew when she was close. The brown and yellow faces of the flowers were bowed down, shriveling towards the ground. The air felt heavy and charged. Gooseflesh ravaged her skin and her heart rate picked up. This was the feeling of dark magic. She had felt it before, nearly drowned in it when Bellatrix tortured her…

Hermione pushed the clustered, brittle stems apart cautiously. It was like parting the foliage in a deep, dark jungle and peering upon something unknown. Lucius stood there among the dying sunflowers; even in their rapidly dessicating state, they were still taller than him. His head was down, his hands fisted at his side, and his chest moving with great, heaving breaths that seemed like they weren't enough.

The black chaos of his mind hit her. It _hurt_. Her hands went to her head as she tried in vain to find some way to block the sensation. But there was no way now; she was too close and he was too out of control. All she could do was try to fight it.

It was incredibly difficult to focus. Her mind felt like it was being ripped apart. She knew without question that it was a tenth of what he felt. His brain was a storm, a festering monster ready to drop its funnel clouds of ruin.

She took a wobbly step toward him. Her heels sunk into the still-sodden ground; she left them behind, impaled in the soil. One foot in front of the other…she could do that…she _had_ to…and she could force her lips to form his name…

"Lucius." Her voice was tight with pain but fortified with determination.

His pale crown jerked up. Those light, ever-shifting eyes fixed on her. Now, in addition to the agony, hate, and rage, they were glassy with unshed tears. He sucked in a gasping breath.

"You must…go!" he half-shouted, half-growled.

"I won't!" she half-shouted, half-growled back at him.

His fingers unwound jerkily. His hands began to tremble. Then he closed his eyes as if he was experiencing a very great pain; a tear leaked from one of them and she followed it all the way to his neck, where it disappeared into the collar of his shirt.

A strand of coherent thought punched through the haze, desperate and impassioned.

_Just let me be…_

And now she _felt_ like she was in the middle of a tornado with wind howling all around her, but really it was just the rush of his power coalescing. It screamed and clawed and even the patchy weeds beneath her feet were withering. Her skin began to feel hot and raw, like she had sunburn again.

"Please!" he cried, falling to his knees before her. His hands went about her wrists, clutching tightly enough to bruise. Those crystalline eyes were at the point where she wondered how the tears were managing to cling stubbornly to his eyelashes and escape the pull of gravity. And then she could have sworn that the tears evaporated right out of them. The blue irises flared with something inhuman…

It was at that moment that Tiresias Smythe burst through the curtain of flowers. He stopped short, his mouth falling open and his eyes widening. Hermione had begun to struggle against Lucius's hold but the pain in her head worsened; she collapsed to her knees, simultaneously fighting against the wizard's grip and relying on it. She heard Smythe's voice.

"I can't let you do this. I'm sorry, Lucius." And then, "Stupefy!"

The jet of red light hit him in the chest. His body jerked once and he fell, taking Hermione with him. She landed sprawled on top of his still figure and couldn't move until the atmosphere of blackness began to dissipate. Even then she was disoriented.

Smythe was wrapping an arm around her and the other around Lucius. He apparated the back to the villa. She was placed on the couch and she fuzzily saw Smythe struggling with the blond wizard's limp form. Then her eyes closed on their own.

* * *

She couldn't say how much time had passed when Smythe woke her. It was still light out. Her head was clearer, but throbbed insistently. All she could manage was,

"What the hell was that?"

Smythe sat heavily, looking weary and shaken. "That," he said, sighing, "is how your own magic and emotions, in the wrong combination, can kill you."

She shot to her feet too fast. "He's not--!"

The healer steadied her and guided her back to the couch. "No, he's asleep. Drugged."

Hermione relaxed, but only minutely. She had never heard of this. "What do you mean his magic can kill him?"

"Secondary to emotions. In a very fervent state of…rage or self-hate, it is possible to wordlessly and wandlessly propel your own magic to destroy you. It manifests as elemental magic. In Lucius's case, fire." Smythe reached for her hand, holding it between his. Her eyes widened as she took in the hand-shaped marks that decorated her wrist and forearm. They weren't bruises. They were burns! It was a little shocking; she hadn't felt it when it happened.

"I've heard of patients who created floods and drowned. Lit themselves on fire. Removed the oxygen from their room…sometimes it's on purpose, sometimes it's not…"

"Please stop," she said shakily.

He blinked. "I'm sorry. If you'll…if you'll just hold still, I'll heal you."

Hermione nodded, trying to digest all that had happened. Something had set Lucius off. The gunpowder and the spark had finally come too close and this was the result. Sweet hell, he could have spontaneously combusted himself. The power she had felt could have destroyed that entire field of sunflowers, her and Smythe included.

"It's rare," he spoke up suddenly. "A person has to be…nearly insane to get to that point. I didn't…" he trailed off, shaking his head.

Just then, Jo-Jo reappeared with a loud pop. They both started slightly and Smythe accidentally poked her with his wand. Hermione bit back a sound of pain and he apologized profusely, immediately healing the damage.

After spinning in a circle to locate them, the house elf began to speak immediately. "Master Lucius is not at any of his vacation homes, Miss Granger!"

"We found him, Jo-Jo." Hermione smiled at the panicked little elf. She nearly fell over in relief.

"Oh, Jo-Jo was so worried!"

"Us, too," Hermione said with a weary smile.

"Jo-Jo did find this at the Manor," the elf spoke up, extracting a rumpled piece of parchment from her pillowcase. "The Master must have left it there."

"Thank you, Jo-Jo. You should rest now."

With a nod the elf blinked out of sight. Hermione smoothed out the paper, not expecting it to be anything of importance. However, she was proven very, very wrong in the space of a few handwritten sentences.

_Mr. Malfoy,_

_It is with deepest sorrow and regret that I inform you that your mother has passed on. You are her next of kin so it is expected that you will make the necessary arrangements. If this is not possible, please let me know and we will make other provisions. Again, I am truly sorry for your loss and I await your correspondence._

_Yours,_

_Hiram T. Callowhill, Esq._

Oh…everything slid into place. A part of Lucius had loved his mother, but that part was constantly at odds with the sheer hatred her betrayal had bred. Hermione didn't know what it was like to love and hate someone at the same time; no one like that had ever been part of her life.

But that was not the problem. If she guessed correctly, Lucius had steeled himself and gone. He'd traveled to wherever his mother lived and gone through the motions of arranging a funeral, settling the will, and whatever else needed doing. She knew how well he wore a mask. He could have done it all without one ounce of turmoil breaking through. And no one would expect any great emotional outbursts from him; purebloods were quite reserved and anyone with half a brain would have figured out that ten years of wintry or nonexistent relations meant he and his mother were not on the best of terms. It would seem completely normal to the outside world.

He might have made it, too, if not for the presence of _his_ book in his mother's library. What a terrible mockery that would be. Had she recognized herself in the prose? Did she still believe it to be fiction? Did the woman feel any remorse at all for what she had done? Now Lucius would never know.

She folded the paper. Tiresias was looking at her expectantly, but she shook her head. He went on healing her until her arms appeared completely unscathed. He really was good at what he did. He released her and sat back, looking very tired.

"I don't want to leave you here alone with him," he said softly. "If he's not stable, he could seriously injure you or even kill you. He nearly has already."

"He warned me. He tried to get away from me. I'm the one who followed. I put myself in danger."

"It doesn't matter." He sighed. "Miss Granger, I would feel best if he were in a hospital. What you saw was an acute psychosis. He needs doctors, medication, and therapy, in that order."

"You're a doctor. He's already drugged. And I can tell you right now, he won't consent to therapy."

Smythe shook his head. "He isn't going to wake up and miraculously be better. People don't get to this point unless there is something seriously wrong." He frowned. "And I have a feeling that you know what it is."

"I might," Hermione said, "but I have no right to tell. If you want to know, ask him."

"I will…if you will consent to me staying the night. I really don't want you to be alone when he wakes."

Hermione contemplated him. There was nothing more than concern in his eyes, for both Lucius and her. Goodness, Lucius had really lucked out with this man. There were very few magical healers who even knew about muggle diseases, let alone accepted patients who had them. Or patients who had the first documented case of one…Smythe was very courageous, and a nice man, to boot. A Gryffindor, perhaps. She couldn't say.

"All right. You can stay. Jo-Jo will make up a room for you."

* * *

She wasn't surprised when Smythe ended up falling asleep in a chaise in Lucius's room. She had curled herself in the chair Lucius had occupied after she'd been sick, the one near the fireplace. A strange sensation gripped her; history was repeating itself with their roles reversed.

He slept very soundly. He didn't move in his sleep, not once, and if not for his slow, rhythmic breathing, she might have worried that he was permanently asleep. Listening to it made her tired. She fought the tide of sleep; if both she and Smythe were unconscious, they would never know if and when Lucius awoke. It defeated the purpose of Smythe staying at all.

It was extremely difficult to stay awake. She hadn't slept well the night before and she was beyond tired. But some unknown reserve of willpower kept her alert and stable. Four hours later, to the soundtrack of Smythe's light snoring, she was rewarded with the slow raise of Lucius's eyelashes.

It seemed like he didn't have the energy to do anything else. His eyes fixed on her, but his mouth remained slack, his breathing even, and his position exactly the same. She thought he was probably still drugged; those eyes were a bit too dull for him to be completely with it.

_Hermione?_ He blinked and the fingers of his outstretched hand twitched.

She went to him without thought, sliding from the chair and into his bed.

_I'm here._

His hand curled into hers but could barely hold on. There was no strength in him. Whatever Smythe had given him was strong. Maybe a little too strong.

_I hurt._ His eyes closed and his breath came a little faster now; maybe she had been wrong in her assessment of the drug. Perhaps it was not strong enough – or perhaps he had been given a sedative when really, he needed to be anesthetized.

_I can wake Healer Smythe. He can give you something for the pain._

A very slight rise and fall of his head indicated his agreement. She turned to call Smythe's name and found that he was already awake and watching intently. He, like many healers, probably had the ability to wake and sleep on demand, as well as ears tuned to the smallest change.

"He says he's in pain," she reported, her thumb unconsciously stroking across Lucius's knuckles. Smythe's eyebrow rose slightly.

"Does he?"

In the space of the question, Hermione knew she had made a mistake. Lucius hadn't _said_ anything – not out loud, anyway. Smythe didn't miss the slip. She could see the way he took in that piece of information and filed it away for later. He was very, very perceptive. She would have to remember that.

He let it slide without comment. Rising from the chaise, he went to rifle through his bag of tricks. He returned with a small vial of clear orange potion.

"Lucius, can you sit up to take this?"

The blond wizard shook his head. Hermione frowned. What on earth had Smythe given him? It rendered him nearly catatonic, and now he was going to give him something for pain, as well? Was that really a good idea?

"All right, I'll help you." Smythe slipped onto the other side of the bed and worked an arm beneath Lucius's shoulder. "Miss Granger, would you mind assisting me?"

She mirrored his actions on the opposite side. "Are you sure it's a good idea to give him that on top of the other potion?" she whispered, although she was sure Lucius could hear. Even drugged out of his mind, he wouldn't miss much.

Together they lifted Lucius into a sitting position. He winced and tensed; she could feel it in expanse of his side that she supported. She had no idea where his pain came from but she didn't doubt for a second that it was there.

"The other one is nearly worn off. It's the…" Smythe faltered, but recovered when he found a word that wasn't loaded, "the reaction."

She nodded and didn't press the healer. He knew more about it than she did, obviously. She had more questions for him, but they could wait until Lucius was asleep again. Smythe held the vial to his lips and Lucius managed to take the potion without incident. The healer was ready to lower him back down when his voice echoed in her mind.

_Water._

She was more careful this time. If she formed it like a question, like she had thought of it, Smythe wouldn't be suspicious of how she knew Lucius's wishes. Hermione spoke up, "Shouldn't we give him some water? Just to make sure he stays hydrated?"

"Ah," Smythe said, "good idea. I see I may have impressed the importance of hydration upon you…"

"You might have," she agreed with a small smile. "I'll go get a pitcher and a glass from the kitchen."

The handsome healer didn't ask her why she didn't just have the house elf do it, and she liked that about him. He seemed to know that everyone had their coping mechanisms; hers was to keep herself busy and not let her mind conjecture itself into a frenzy. She let her feet guide her to the kitchen, trying not to think about how helpless Lucius seemed and how wrong it was to see him like this. She was especially trying to drown out that part of her mind that knew that this was how his final days would be, if and when the disease took him.

Jo-Jo was still asleep in her little den that she'd made in an old, disconnected wood-burning stove. The poor thing probably hadn't slept any better than her. Hermione got the water and the glass quietly and tiptoed back to the main level of the villa.

She and Smythe gave a glass and a half to Lucius, which he drank like a man who had been lost in the desert. Then Hermione fluffed his pillows fussily, prompting an amused eye roll from Smythe, and they lowered their rapidly fatiguing patient back down. He fell asleep almost instantly.

Hermione couldn't help herself. She touched him, the planes of his face, the stray strands of his hair, his dry lips. Some part of her brain needed to make sure he was actually there and not just a ghost. She would have kissed those dry lips if Tiresias Smythe hadn't been in the room.

"Miss Granger?"

She tore her eyes from the sleeping face of Lucius Malfoy. "Yes?"

"We need to talk a bit more and then you should get some sleep."

Hermione nodded and followed him out to the sitting room. He seemed a bit restless now, pacing while she sat patiently on the couch.

"I need to do some more research," he said at last (a man after her own heart), "but what I do know is that what's taken place is incredibly draining. He probably feels like he's been run over by a stampede of hippogriffs. It's not just his body, though. His magic will be depleted. He may not be able to levitate so much as a feather for a day or two." Smythe chewed his lip. "Lucius could probably sleep for three days straight. And with almost any other patient, I would allow that. But he has to be up and doing things – within reason – by Thursday morning."

She frowned. "What if he can't? He can barely lift a finger right now."

"The physical effects will abate. He'll definitely be exhausted and weak, but it's important that he doesn't just lie in that bed."

"And I suppose I'm going to have to be the one to cajole him out of it?" she asked, quirking a brow at the healer.

"Well, yes. I am going to stay a bit longer, but after that I can no longer neglect my personal business. My mind will not be far from here, and I'll check in via the floo every few hours. He will know that you're bothering him on my orders, not because you're trying to torment him."

Hermione still felt a bit of uncertainty. "What if the thing he really needs is just to lie in bed for three days?" she asked.

"Miss Granger, how much do you know about his disease?"

"A fair amount, I suppose…"

"Then you know how prone he will be to illness. One of the easiest ways to get sick is to be idle in bed. Most people wouldn't have any lasting problems from lying around for a few days, but I'm not willing to take chances with him. Especially not when he's missed his medication and his viral load has risen from the last check." Smythe's face softened as he regarded her. "I know I'm asking a lot of you. Mentally, he may really need to do nothing while he recovers. But physically, he can't afford it; you need to be the one that cares, because I'm not sure he does."

She absorbed that and then nodded. "You're not afraid that he'll hurt me anymore?"

A thoughtful expression passed over his tanned face. "No. I do want to ask you again, though…what exactly are you two doing here?"

Hermione sighed. "I'll let you know when I figure it out."

* * *

Smythe had left her with a healthy handful of potion vials and a few muggle pills and instructed her on what to give him when. It was a lot to remember, but thankfully she was quite good at such things. He'd also told her to put Lucius's wand in a safe place where he might not find it for a few days, to keep her own close, and that he fully expected her to floo if there were any problems. He seemed a bit nervous to leave her. She supposed it was his prerogative, because she was not a healer and he really did care about Lucius's welfare.

She was more or less dead on her feet. Climbing into bed with Lucius, who had not moved an inch, seemed like the natural thing to do. She wouldn't be able to sleep in her room, far away and wondering. Being curled next to him was a whole different story. She hadn't Smythe's skill of sleeping and being aware of what was going on around him at the same time, but she would know if Lucius made any major movements or got out of bed. She could program her mind to pay attention to that.

She couldn't really explain her desire to wrap her arms around his warm body. Or maybe she could; she wanted to squeeze the pain out of him. Unfortunately, she didn't think he was a sponge to be twisted and drained. All these emotions wouldn't leave him so easily. They hadn't gotten there easily, so logic followed that the leaving would be no better.

Hermione had no idea what to expect. She had her share of bad days and she'd seen a few people, namely Harry, at their worst, but neither compared to Lucius. Not for the first time, she wished for a time-turner. She wasn't exactly sure what she would do with it; preventing his rape would be too great a change and one never knew if the altered future would be better or worse. She hated the feeling that his journey to this point had been inevitable. It didn't seem fair.

Throwing caution to the wind, Hermione snuggled up against his side. Her cheek rested against his chest, listening to the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat. Why could she only be so bold when he was asleep? She didn't know. She dozed against him, her hand along the smooth, muscled plane of his stomach.

Hours later, in the dark depth of night, she awoke when he shifted. But she quickly realized there was no cause for alarm. All he did was turn slightly, wrap his arms around her, and drop back into the abyss. She did the same after a minute; she was too tired to contemplate the way his embrace made her feel, and in all likelihood, he had just done it out of sleepy reflex.

* * *

She woke to a gaze that was much more lucid than it had been the evening before. He was on his stomach, his cheek resting against the back of his hand. And he was staring right at her; he probably had been for some time. Hermione forced herself not to squirm or feel self-conscious. She also ruled out awkwardness, worry, and panic. She was going to wait for him to make his move and determine her response from there.

_Good morning._

Well, that was civil. Hermione offered him a small smile. _Good morning._

Silence reigned. He looked at her and she looked at him. She didn't want to back down, although she wasn't really sure it was any kind of competition. The ambiguous staring match last a long, long time. It might have been a half hour.

Then, with slow and deliberate care, he sat up. He couldn't keep the grimace off his face as he did so. He was moving toward the edge of the bed.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Loo," he ground out.

Ah. Yes, he would need to do that. What if he was so weak that he…required help? He would probably never ask for it, but the last thing he needed was for his legs to give out on the way there or while…God, she hadn't thought about this.

He seemed all right, though. She could see that his body hurt, and quite acutely at that, but his balance was sure. Nonetheless…

"If you…if you need help, just yell," she said as he hobbled out of the room. She got no response and she hadn't really expected one. It seemed like she wouldn't have to worry; a few minutes later he limped back into the room and collapsed onto the bed. This time he was not facing her.

She waited him out. She knew that if she was patient enough, he would start talking. It might be an hour or it might be two days, but he would talk. He had to talk. She would _make_ him talk.

_What the hell happened to me?_

Her head jerked toward him. He was still turned the in the other direction; maybe it was easier that way.

_You don't remember?_

_I remember…coming here, wanting to burn the manuscript…you stopped me…I was so angry…then just disjointed images…sunflowers and red flashes..._

She swallowed. She hadn't expected this, either. Honesty was the best policy, right?

_You…lost control. Your elemental magic took over. You nearly killed yourself._

At that he turned to face her, back in the same position as before. His eyes were troubled.

_I didn't hurt you, did I?_

_No._ Hermione smiled and went against her best policy. What had taken place wasn't his fault. There had been no intent in the burns. Accidents didn't count, but he might not see it the same way; this was best, for now.

_You and Smythe stopped me?_

_Yes. He stunned you and we brought you back here. You've been sedated._

His eyes slipped shut.

_Are you in pain?_ she asked, recognizing the tension in his face.

His lips twitched. _What kind of pain?_

_Any kind._

Oh, hell. His lips were not twitching so much as quivering. And when he opened his eyes, they filled with tears.

_I am in every kind of pain..._

He turned away, ashamed of his emotion but unable to escape the moment. She could feel it; it bombarded her mind, filling it with his frustration and mortification at not being able to control it. He hated that he even had to experience it. He laid there, his back to her, one hand pressed to his face. The poor man couldn't even cry without it making him feel _worse_. His upbringing had really done a number on him, though he certainly wasn't the only man in the world who had been taught that emotion was weakness.

_Talk to me, Lucius._

_No._ It was punctuated by a ragged, uneven breath. He was well and truly crying and he despised it. She was powerfully reminded of psychology texts she had read, of the studies on learned helplessness that had haunted her with their cruelty. Lucius was one of those animals with electrodes in the floor of his cage, and no matter what he did he could not escape; now he just stayed still and endured the shocks because he had been conditioned to believe there was no way out. This sudden outbreak of humiliating emotion was just another electric shock.

"Please," she said softly. "Just talk. It doesn't have to make any sense. You don't have to censor yourself. I won't say anything back to you. I'll just…listen."

He said nothing, mentally or verbally. Determined, she slid closer to him and spooned against his back. She felt his skin leap at the contact. His muscles were bunched beneath her fingers.

_Lucius__, please.__ You need to do this._

"I need to die," he said, his voice rough and choked. "I just need to die." He nearly moaned it the second time. And then his chest hitched violently and a sob escaped him.

_Oh God oh God ohgodohgodohgodohgod…! _His mind railed, incapable of anything else, but that was all he needed. The desperation, the fear, the confusion, the hatred – all of it was hitting him at once. She knew the echoes in her mind were a fraction of his pain. It brought tears to her eyes.

She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly as he shook and trembled and raged. Soon enough, she was crying almost as hard as him, because she knew…she knew that he simultaneously loved her and hated her for witnessing this. And, as she was increasingly discovering, ambivalence was not a good thing in his world.

* * *

It was strange to think it, but Lucius Malfoy had quite literally cried himself to sleep. She didn't dare wake him. Emotion was exhausting and he needed the rest. _She_ needed the break…and time to plan. He had to talk. It was time to impress upon him that he could no longer soldier through life with everything bottled up. It would kill him, and she was not nearly as convinced as he was that that was going to happen anyway.

If the disease did take him, there was no use in living his last months or years in misery. This was a chance for him to start over, to right wrongs, to really _live _instead of whatever he'd been doing before. Didn't he see that? Or was he so blinded by everything that happened that death was the only solution?

Well, that wouldn't fly with her, thank you very much! She had told herself from the start that there was no to be no easy out for Lucius. There was something to be salvaged and no matter how he kicked and screamed, she was going to salvage it. He would thank her later, or maybe he wouldn't; at this point it didn't matter. Her conscience would be clear either way.

She risked a bath in his attached bathroom. The odds of him waking were low, but she left the door open a crack and kept an eye on his still form anyway. The hot water felt good, and maybe the scent of apples would be comforting to him…

The thought of food made her realize that she was starved. What had she done with all the food she bought yesterday? It was probably still lying on the floor in the bag where she'd dropped it. She didn't even remember what she bought. That reminded her, she had to bring back the bag she'd vanished, filled with the pages of Soif and one of her new dresses. She was going to wear the dresses here because she would be too embarrassed to do so once she returned to London for reasons that she didn't really understand. It was just…different here.

She set Jo-Jo to making something with the mess of ingredients she'd purchased. Then she dug through her bag for a new book. She had just settled on the chaise Smythe had occupied the day before when Jo-Jo appeared. Bless the little thing, she'd made an absolutely mouthwatering breakfast quiche. She'd brought some for Lucius, as well, and put it on the bureau under a warming spell. Hermione would force food on him later under the guise of Smythe's orders. The stubborn fool was going to eat.

She smiled to herself, recognizing her own streak of belligerent determination. She would have to be careful. With Ron and Harry she could get away with being an absolute, bitchy terror. She didn't think Lucius would take as kindly to that, not in this state. He required a more delicate, but no less heavy-handed, approach.

An hour later she was deeply involved in her book when his breathing began to pick up. She glanced over top of the pages. Shit, she ought to have given him Dreamless Sleep. The last thing he needed right now was a nightmare, and she knew he had plenty to choose from. She wondered if it would be wise to wake him from it.

He turned over very suddenly, making her jump. Maybe it was just a very lively dream and not a nightmare. With his guard down, perhaps she could slip into his mind and check…

She barely had to concentrate. He was so unguarded in his sleep that it reminded her of how it felt to pull open a door you had anticipated being much heavier and nearly clock yourself in the face with it. It made her wonder; how many times had Voldemort done this, dipped into his mind when he was asleep to find just the things he needed?

She shivered, bothered by the sheer predatory genius of it. Lucius was certainly an Occlumens, but one couldn't control the mind when asleep. How had Snape never been found out, then? Hm. Harry had said that before each Occlumency lesson, Snape emptied his mind of the memories he didn't want seen. Maybe that was how he'd done it; each night, he'd surrendered anything that could be incriminating to a pensieve. That way the Dark Lord could rifle all he wanted and he'd only find things he wanted to see.

Perhaps, over time, Lucius had learned to apply such tactics, too. But in the beginning…he hadn't known. Voldemort had invaded his mind and seen all of Lucius, and she would bet that he had used the young, scarred Slytherin's vulnerabilities to trap him, to mold him…what a sick son of a bitch. She was spitefully glad that he was dead.

A light sweat had broken out on Lucius's forehead. He was breathing rapidly. Hermione chewed her lip. She probably didn't want to see whatever he was experiencing. Most of all, she didn't want to be like _him_, taking advantage of a person's exposure in sleep. But his mind was cocooning around hers, pulling her in, as if it welcomed the intrusion or was so accustomed to it that it would not fight…

She was hit with the powerful smell of grass. Oh, dear, she hadn't been privy to one of these dreams in a while. A surge of pain hit her as she became aware. She was with Lucius, inside him, seeing as he had seen. A dark night sky stretched above, sprinkled with stars and a distant half-moon. She was on her back in long, dewy grasses, moisture soaking through a shirt against a broad back that was not her own.

The panorama of the stars was broken and she started inside him; the real Lucius had no reaction, but for a small, leaping anxiety that was quickly squelched. Voldemort loomed over them. He still had some of his more human features; his nose was not so flattened, his skin not quite as pale, but those eyes were already a hellish red and they sparked with a greed she had never seen before. That greed made her nervous - more nervous than the ricochets of pain that were moving through Lucius's body and his obvious helplessness.

"Does it hurt, Lucius?"

"Y-yes, my Lord," he rasped. She realized that his voice was hoarse from screaming. He was being tortured. Voldemort's next question gave her chills.

"Could it hurt more?" His voice was soft, cloying, as if he were offering a child candy. She could feel the dark surge of fear and hopelessness that rose in Lucius's chest.

"Yes." The answer was barely a whisper.

"Then why do you scream so, Lucius? You know there are things worse than the Cruciatus."

"I cannot help it, my Lord."

"You can, and you will. If you scream I will be forced to give you something to scream about. Are you ready?"

To her great shock, Lucius nodded. A spear of rage shot through her. He had been given an impossible task; she could attest that it was almost entirely out of your control whether you screamed under the effects of the Cruciatus or not. When it had been done to her, sounds she didn't even know she could make had come from her throat. If Lucius managed not to scream, she would be equal parts impressed and disturbed.

Four very long bouts of Cruciatus later, he had nearly bitten through his lip. She could feel the cries as they bubbled up inside him and somehow he crushed them. But the fifth, cast mere seconds after the end of the fourth, when he was still trying to drag air into his body, proved to be his undoing. The scream ripped out of him, shattering the night's precarious silence. Voldemort looked grimly satisfied.

Lucius lay very still as the curse faded. He knew his failure; it filled him with shame. What was _wrong_ with him? Didn't he know that what he'd been asked to do was impossible, not to mention sadistic? Why wasn't he fighting this?

"You asked me to help you with this, Lucius. Did you mean it?"

"Yes, my Lord. Yes!"

"To lose your fear, pain must become meaningless. You must know every kind of horror, Lucius, experience it and make it into something else, and then the things which cause you pain and fear will lose their power. But you cannot even handle a little Cruciatus…perhaps I was wrong to take you on…"

Lucius groped to his knees. The Dark Lord's pseudo-dismissal panicked him. Hermione wished she could take the blond's large, strong hands and snap Voldemort's neck. She was beginning to see how Lucius had become what he was. It was a clever alignment of circumstance and manipulation; Voldemort had seen an opening, a crack in the volatile pureblood's armor, and exploited it for all it was worth.

"You were not wrong!" the pureblood in question shouted. "I can do this! I _will_ do this!"

Voldemort's crimson eyes narrowed and that greed flooded into them again. "Then remember, Lucius, always remember that you asked it of me. I am only giving you what you want…"

A cold hand touched his forehead and images flashed, rapid-fire, through Lucius's mind. One of them was of the man that had raped him. And when he opened his eyes, it was that man before him. Hermione knew that it was Voldemort under a glamour, and so did a small, rational part of Lucius, but it was easily overruled by primal fear.

He tried to get away. His body was not quite right from the Cruciatus, though, and he couldn't make it to his feet. Then, as quickly as the debilitating fear had come, Lucius remembered that he was a grown man. Irrational rage took over and he lunged for his tormentor. Those strong hands of his went for the neck – _snap it, Lucius, snap it! _she mentally beseeched him, though she knew it would do no good – and she wondered if the Dark Lord had anticipated this.

It didn't matter. Lucius was repelled first with a spell and then with a thunderous crack to the head. The blow hadn't been necessary and Hermione knew with a nauseating certainty that Voldemort had done it to mimic the childhood event. The sick fuck! He was going to…

Oh, no. No, she would _not_ allow him to live through this again. She seized to Lucius's consciousness with ruthless fingers. If she could tear herself out of his dreams, she could take him with her. She _would_ take him with her. The Dark Lord's voice washed over her, distant now: "It's what you want, Lucius. Remember that you asked for it…"

She pulled and pulled and pulled, and then, like the sensation of winning a tug of war, fell backwards into reality. She had actually been pulling on him. Her fingers had bruised his arms. His eyes shot open, hunted and confused, and he reacted instinctively. Hermione found herself on her back, his solid weight on top of her. His hand was raised to strike her.

She squeezed her eyes shut and lifted her arms to protect herself. His chest heaved. She could feel the cool slickness of his terror-sweat. What she didn't feel was his fist coming down upon her.

Hermione dared to open her eyes. His left hand was planted next to her head and his right was slowly dropping to his side. He was straddling her, his weight resting on her middle, trapping her. Suddenly he took hold of her shoulders and shook her, once, very hard.

"Why do you stay? Why? Don't you see what I'll do to you?"

"You were having a nightmare," she said evenly, taking hold of his wrists. "It wasn't your fault. You promised you wouldn't hurt me, and I believe you."

"Promises are a fool's contract," he snarled. His father's words.

"Then from one fool to another, try to honor it. Get off me, Lucius, you're heavy."

He looked at her like she had grown an extra head. Then, with an arduous sigh, he rolled off her and onto his back. Hermione watched him out of the corner of her eye for long minutes. When his breathing had slowed to a normal pace, she spoke up.

"What was your nightmare about?" She knew exactly what it had been about and it still sickened her, but this would tell her whether or not he was aware that she had been there with him. He wouldn't hesitate to call her on it.

"Nothing worth mentioning," he said, and that was it. He was shut. His shields were raised and attenuated to any possibility of invasion. Well, that was too bad for him.

In a quick move, she assumed the same position on top of him that he'd been in minutes before. She didn't weigh nearly as much as him, of course, and if he wanted to be rid of her he could certainly toss her aside, but she didn't think he would.

"What are you…?"

"You're going to talk to me."

"There is nothing to talk about."

"Well, then I hope you're not hungry or thirsty or in need of the loo. Because I'm going to sit right here until you talk."

His lips twitched, and this time it was in mirth. "You think sitting on me is an effective interrogation tactic? You weigh about as much as a Pomeranian."

She crossed her arms over her chest and willed herself to ignore the comparison to a small, annoying dog. It was a good sign that he felt well enough to needle her, especially after that dream. She had pushed it to the back of her mind for now; she was sure it would return to haunt her later.

"Well, the other option is for me to slip you Veritaserum. Smythe left some for me, you know." That was an outrageous lie, but she was feeling outrageous, and desperate times called for desperate measures. "At least this way, you would have some control over what you told me."

The humor drained out of his face. "You have been around me too long already."

"Or not long enough, since I didn't just skip this and spike your tea."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "You don't have any Veritaserum."

She tilted her head. "Are you sure?"

"Are _you_ sure that I don't just want you to sit on me?"

"You're disgusting."

He actually smiled. "Likewise." Lucius propped himself up on his elbows, eyes filling with mischief. "If you scoot just a little bit lower and lift up your dress, I'll tell you anything you want."

Hermione resisted the urge to slap him. It was just that defense mechanism at work. He was trying to scare her away with crude sexuality. It might have worked a week ago, but not anymore. Time to call his bluff.

She shifted lower on his body and settled over the parts he had indicated. He jerked in surprise. She was pulling the soft fabric of the purple dress up her thighs when his hands shot out to stop her.

"Merlin! I was just kidding!" The stirring in his groin indicated that he was not kidding as much as either of them would like to believe, but she had proved her point. "Get off me before you get yourself in trouble," he growled.

"Are you going to talk?"

He heaved a sigh. "I'll…I'll need a bottle of firewhiskey…"

She had never been so happy or so relieved to enable someone's misuse of alcohol.

* * *

Until, several hours later, by the light of the fireplace, he confessed that his mother died of alcohol poisoning. She had learned a lot about the woman; she remarried in haste after his father's death, moved to Australia, and after that the only correspondence had been birthday and Christmas presents for Draco. Lucius had received the letter from her lawyer, Hiram Callowhill, the night of the storms while Hermione was 'indisposed' – his diplomatic way of saying 'irrationally panicking in her room'. There really was no one else to settle things; her second husband was dead, also, and she had no other family. So he'd gone all the way to Australia.

He figured the least he could do in light of her leaving him and Draco everything she had, in addition to much of her second husband's holdings, was give her a decent funeral. A few dozen older witches and wizards showed up to pay their respects and not one recognized him; apparently most of them hadn't even known she had a son. Talk about denial…

And then he'd gone to her house to see if there was anything worth bringing back. He'd been working on a sort of autopilot and didn't really think when he entered the library. He lost his words when he tried to describe the feeling of finding his book among her things. He did manage to say that the copy of Faim was dog-eared and some of the pages rippled with water damage. So there was a distinct possibility that she had figured it out, known that it was Lucius – and said and done nothing.

It reminded Hermione of the article in the Critiquill magazine. However, that was an issue for another day. She wasn't going to interrupt Lucius's flow. Most of the talking had been done through the Vow's bond and the insight into his mother's death was no exception. Not surprisingly, his monologue bore a lot of resemblance to the way he wrote.

_They said it was an overdose, but it wouldn't have mattered. Her liver was failing. It was a habit, apparently…_

How he could take another long swig of whiskey immediately after that was beyond her. This was patently ridiculous; she was propped up in bed with him, his right arm around her shoulders and his left holding the half-empty bottle. Pretty soon _she_ would be in need of a drink.

_And then I thought to myself, maybe she was drinking even when I was a boy. She slept a lot. I saw the house elves more than I saw her, and when I did it was like she was trying to make up for something. Maybe I tried to tell her about the…when she was drunk. Maybe she didn't remember when she sobered up._

Hermione frowned. She seriously doubted that. More likely the woman had been depressed and drinking all along, but set to it in earnest after she realized what she had done to her son. Guilt was a powerful thing. She wouldn't say anything, though; for the most part, she'd been allowing him to speak uninterrupted. It had been slow going at first, but now he was picking up speed.

_And maybe I shouldn't hate her. Maybe I should have sympathy for her. But I…_

He was quiet for a long time. She could feel his fingers worrying the sleeve of her dress. At last it came out.

_All I ever wanted was an apology, or just an acknowledgement. I don't know that I would have forgiven her, but it would have been something. A step in the right direction._

_She was afraid, Lucius._

_Of what?_

_She was afraid that acknowledging it or apologizing would make it real. It would make her failure as a mother real._

He was silent. He took another drink. She might have to confiscate that from him; he was inebriated enough to talk freely. Alcoholism was genetic, wasn't it? At least partially?

_I think I would rather acknowledge my failure than pretend it never happened. I am not so proud that I would sacrifice my child to protect my own ego._

_She wasn't as strong as you._

He snorted. "Strong. Right."

"I'm serious. I don't think you understand how strong you are."

"Strength and the ability to cling to a shred of sanity among the dregs of your hideous life are not the same thing."

What she'd give to be so eloquent (if a bit dramatic) when she was drunk. Though to be fair, he was not yet falling over and slurring. She wasn't going to let him get to that point.

"Coping _is_ strength, Lucius."

"I coped myself right into prison. I coped my son into the hands of a madman. I nearly coped my family into extinction. You still want to call that strength?"

"Well, the alternative was St. Mungo's or death."

"Either of which might have been more productive."

"Listen, I'm not saying that I approve of what you did. I'm just telling you that you were doing what you could with what you knew."

He lapsed into moody silence. After a few minutes, he held the bottle out to her. She took it with every intention of not giving it back. However, that wouldn't stop her from having a little nip. She drank some and coughed daintily, grimacing as it burned down her esophagus. She'd only had firewhiskey straight once before, and only then because it was a toast to those who had died in the final battle. She put the bottle on the nightstand, out of his reach.

"You are too forgiving, Hermione," he said quietly.

She looked up at him, surprised. He'd said her name without hesitation and without being asked. He wasn't so drunk that he wouldn't realize what he was doing. Lucius had given her what she wanted. Bugger…now she supposed she could no longer sneak looks at Soif, if he chose to continue it. She took a deep breath as a sudden surge of emotion tightened in her chest.

"I don't think so," she replied, just as quietly. "I could hold a lot of grudges, but does that make much sense after a war that was all about grudges?"

He didn't answer. But he did sigh, unwind his arm from her shoulder, and slide down to rest his head on her thigh. She didn't try to suppress the urge to stroke his flaxen hair. Thankfully, he issued no complaint as she settled into a slow rhythm, running her fingers along the soft strands. Soon he fell into the sleep of the whiskey-soused. Hermione smiled, summoned her book, and settled in for the evening.

* * *

A/N 2: So our heroes are making some definite breakthroughs, but Lucius may still be a bit sore about Hermione dismissing him after that kiss…


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Note: Things start to heat up here...

Vendeurs Fichus: How's this for speed? Hehe thanks for your compliments.

Velvet Storm: Yes, Hermione is definitely Lucius's lifeline at present. She's seen him at his worst and is still there. He's definitely seeing something new in her. Here's the next chapter to satisfy your curiosity!

GiggleGinny: Haha, it's true, many people (not just men) don't have the vocabulary our dear Lucius has. Thank you for the thoughtful words, they are fuel for the muse to create more potent and unexpected chapters. :)

Lady Lucius Malfoy: Thank you! They are entertaining together, aren't they?

SpaceyMoonFlower: Yay, another fanfic and Lumione convert! I'm glad you enjoy my fics. And thank you, it feels great to know I'm doing my job well!

RobynHawkes: Your niece sure has good taste! I'm glad you're enjoying the story.

Clearheart: Whoa, that _was_ a review on par with the Critiquill! Maybe you should write for them. Yes, a new Lumione convert...mwahahaha!

Azrulai: Iceland? I'm insanely jealous. I want to go. Take me with you next time! I agree that sometimes people don't make Voldy as soulless as he really is (literally and figuratively). He'll make a few more appearances in Lucius's nightmares, methinks.

Madam Thalia: Thank you, here it is!

fahzzyquill: I heart him, too. Things are going to start looking a bit better for Lucius, starting now.

Pookiepantsmcpoo: I still love your penname. Here's your next installment, and the start of something new.

GurloftheNight: Thank you! Here's an update. :)

Cyranothe2nd: I can see why the less intelligent of the purebloods would follow Voldemort, but Lucius is no dummy; there had to be reasons. Also, I think a lot of people underplay just how evil/twisted Voldemort was. Yes, Lucius has definitely been robbed of closure, but he may find it someday...

Drachegirl14: How are you making out with those recs? I hope you like them. :) The closet won't be necessary, I promise.

LoneCayt: Thank you!

Mendelbra: Thanks!

Blue Willow S: What band is 'my skin' by? I constantly listen to music when I'm writing and it's a huge factor in my muse's flow, so new stuff is always welcome.

Alchemelia: Hehe thanks.

HarrowingGothling: I'm sure Lucius is going to start feeling better soon. ;)

loveismagic: More romance coming up!

darklady5289: Yup, but who knows what Cissa has read?

CoCo82: Since you're such a great reviewer, I'll lend Lucius to you for an extended hair stroking session...among other things. ;)

* * *

When she woke he wasn't there. A brief flare of panic cascaded through her. Then she reached out for their bond and sensed how close he was and how much stronger his presence felt today. Her muscles unwound with relief.

He was just in the bathroom next door. The door was open a crack, much as she'd left it the day before. A thin wisp of steam was emitting from the room. Apparently he was having a very hot bath. He'd need one, as he'd been laid up for the last two days. The act of bathing was also very powerful when it came to the process of healing; it was nice to feel, if only for a quarter of an hour, that everything could be scrubbed away like so much dead skin.

All the same, she knew she should check on him. He seemed to be a lot better. However, he was as talented at acting as she was at absorbing copious amounts of information; she didn't want to take the chance that he was doing any of the more fatal things one could do in a bathtub. Like drown, bleed out, or electrocute himself…not that there was any electricity in the villa. Good lord, she'd watched far too many made-for-TV movies on her summers off.

She ignored the little part of her mind that told her that maybe she wanted a look at him in the bath for other reasons. If a glance of skin at his ankle had set her mind racing a week ago, what would more of him do? Absolutely nothing, she reasoned. That was what she tried to tell herself, anyhow.

Hermione got out of (his) bed quietly and moved toward the loo door. She really _had_ been around him too long; sneaking around was becoming second nature. She hoped she had developed enough subtlety not to get caught. Regardless, he'd gotten an eyeful of her when she had heat stroke. It was only fair.

She peered cautiously through the crack in the door. The air that issued from it was humid and sparsely scented with something masculine and herbal. Oh! Merlin, why wasn't he _in_ the tub? Sweet mother of –

Her mind stopped. He had just gotten out. Water was dripping down him in dozens of little rivers, forking in different directions, guided by the topography of his muscles. Oh. Damn it, she'd forgotten a cardinal rule of male desirability; most men who were in any kind of shape (and who had any semblance of good looks) were a thousand times sexier when soaking wet.

She'd seen him before, after her cold bath, but she'd been so tired and delirious that she hadn't actually processed what she saw. No such luck this time. His hair was wet and messy, some of it falling across his face and framing one permafrost eye that thankfully was not directed at her. His skin was slightly pink from the hot water.

His torso was toned and she could find no defect on it save for the fact that he could use a bit more meat on him; she wondered just how much weight he'd lost, total. Robes could add a lot of bulk to a person, so it was possible that it had been going on for a long time and no one noticed. Well, she was noticing now.

Oh, was she. He had shoulders to die for, broad shoulders that fairly screamed for the nail-marks of a lover emblazoned in little half-moons across them. If he had hair on his chest, it was so pale that she couldn't see it from where she was. However, her eyes were magnetically drawn to the strip of slightly darker hair that drew a lovely line down his abdomen. She sucked in a breath, perhaps a bit too loudly.

His narrow hips and strong legs framed a rather impressive set of male parts. Whatever one could say about Lucius Malfoy, it was not that he lacked a certain endowment. It was men like him that prompted people to really enjoy the form of the human body.

And those thighs! Muscled, long, athletic…she would have liked to touch his quadriceps, to feel the group of muscles bunch and ripple beneath her fingers. He even had nice knees, sturdy and symmetrical, not knobby like she sometimes thought hers were. People assured her that it was all in her head. She was allowed a hang-up or two, besides her hair.

There were those tantalizing ankles, also athletic; she noted the definition in his calves and the taut sinew of his Achilles tendon as well as the smattering of pale hair that lined the smooth skin. His feet were proportional and well-shaped, not too large or too highly arched. Someone had really taken care in creating him. Or perhaps not, because it seemed like all the defects had gone straight into his personality…

He turned, as if he somehow knew that her appraisal of his front was complete. She hoped he didn't. He would be a bit of an exhibitionist, though, wouldn't he? She could say with some confidence that he probably enjoyed being looked at. Men like him thrived on attention, because attention meant power. She was sure it had gotten him in trouble more than once.

This was not fair. His arse made her mind spiral away into a cascade of indecent thoughts. She knew from reading that women were biologically tuned to appreciate a fine rear end; back in the days of cave-people, a strong behind was a sign of virility. Since the main drive back then (besides survival) was reproduction, this was an extremely desirable trait in a male. Well, it was safe to say that Lucius stoked her inner cavewoman. Give her plant dyes and let her paint the wall of a cave; she was more than happy to create the next Lascaux if it meant Lucius was her partner in early humanity.

Bugger him. From top to bottom, he was more or less delicious. It really wasn't fair.

_What isn't fair?_

His thoughts intruded into her mind. The mental words were neutral, giving away no hint of whether he realized she was looking at him or not. Who was she kidding? He always seemed better tuned to her mind than she to his. He might have been listening to her entire prolonged stream of consciousness regarding his physical assets. That would certainly stroke his ego, the pompous thing. In spite of herself, she smiled.

He turned, looking over his shoulder. "I know you're there."

Hermione was caught, and strangely it didn't panic her. She opened the door. "I just wanted to check on you."

He turned, apparently having no semblance of modesty, although what did it matter when she'd already ogled him? Lucius moved toward her, nude and lithe. She had trouble keeping her eyes on his face. He was a hell of a specimen.

"I assure you, if I was going to off myself I would choose something far more inventive and dramatic than drowning myself in the tub."

"That's not funny."

His lips quirked briefly. "Perhaps not." He appraised her. "What is funny is how you tend to be so concerned about _my_ perversions, yet you are the one peeping at me while I bathe."

"I told you, I only wanted to check on you. It isn't my fault you chose the exact moment I arrived at the door to get out of the tub."

"I am certain that if you discovered me standing outside the door of your bathroom, you would attempt to hex my balls off whether you were in the tub or not."

Ooh, leave it to him to mention his balls when they were _right there_, in arm's reach and definitely accessible to her errant eyes. He had a rather nice scrotum, really, it didn't hang too low and – okay, that train of thought had to end there.

"Well, I'm not suicidal," she pointed out, a tad peevishly. It was disconcerting to be having a conversation with him when he was stark naked no more than two feet away. The mere sight of him would have jammed a lesser woman's mind into a complete standstill. She refused to feel bad for spying on him. It was almost a given that he'd taken a good long look at her when she'd been tormented by the heat stroke.

He frowned at her. "Neither am I. Whatever happened…it wasn't intentional. As you said, I lost control." This time she heard one of his wayward thoughts: _If I was going to kill myself, I wouldn't botch it up…_

She looked up, straight into his eyes. "Don't even think about it." Then she started to pivot, intent upon removing herself from this strange liaison. His hand around her wrist stopped her.

"I think I know what wasn't fair, before," he said.

"What?" she asked with some trepidation.

His hand loosened and then his fingers trailed down her wrist and across the palm of her hand with uncharacteristic gentleness.

_That we can look…but not touch…_

And it wasn't said with any arrogance. Just plain and simple truth. Hermione turned her back on him, rankled by how perceptive he was. And how hypocritical they _both_ were…because they most certainly could touch, and had on numerous occasions, be they invited touches or otherwise…and if she had any kind of backbone, any speck of the courage Gryffindors were so famous for, she would turn around and run her hands all over him, along the peaks and valleys of his flesh…

But that…that just couldn't happen. Or so she thought; as she once again tried to walk away, he flung his towel around her, caught it with the other hand, and pulled her flush against his body. He wrapped the ends around his forearms quickly, giving her no room to budge. So they were back to this.

"Lucius--"

_Am I so repulsive?_

_What? _The question caught her off guard.

_What defect do you find with me? Besides the obvious?_

"You're not…there's no…" she trailed off, unsure of what he was even asking or why. She was even less sure of what he wanted or needed to hear.

A moment later he released her. He turned away, raising the towel to work the excess water out of his hair. "Never mind."

* * *

Hermione couldn't stop turning the strange encounter over in her mind. Lucius had been equal parts passive and aggressive. He almost seemed like he had been waiting for her to do or say something. But what, and for what purpose, escaped her.

He was angry at her. She could feel it. It was a dim rumble on the edge of their bond. She hated not knowing why someone was upset with her. She wasn't psychic and Lucius was making sure she couldn't read his mind. He was as closed as a fortress under siege. The last thing he needed right now was to be angry; that was what had set him off before, anger and pain and grief. Though why she should evoke any of those in him was still a mystery.

A curious thought occurred to her. He was attracted to her, and she was artfully avoiding his advances. Was he…actually waiting for her _consent_? Her agreement? That didn't seem like something he'd bother with. But then she remembered the way he had hesitated before he kissed her, the way he had waited just a fraction of a second to see if she would pull away. Oh, and the anxiety in that shaky expulsion of his breath that danced so pleasantly across her lips…

He wanted her, but he wanted her to want him, as well. A part of him also staunchly _didn't_ want the complication of any of this. A queasy pit settled into her stomach. Was it possible that in the process of all this…she was making him fall in love with her?

Hermione shook her head sharply. No, that was impossible. He might desire her physically, but she'd established before that he barely knew what love was. He was just trying to go about satisfying his desire for her in a more chivalrous way – if trapping her against his naked body with a wet towel could be considered chivalrous. If it wasn't one strategy, it was another.

Why did she keep doing this? Whenever he tried to behave like a normal human being, she could only find ulterior motives in it. Maybe he really was trying to give her a choice. Maybe he just didn't know how. Or worse yet, maybe _she_ didn't know how to view him…

She felt on the verge of tears. It was painful to know that she was attracted to him, and even a little attached. She had meant it when she told him not to even think about harming himself. If he needed a crutch she was happy to be one for a while. But love? What could she do if he needed love?

A tear spilled down her cheek. Everyone needed love. Those who didn't receive it turned out like Voldemort. Lucius had received precious little; perhaps only the guilt-ridden spoiling of his mother, the demure support of his ex-wife, and the unadulterated devotion of his son before age and consequence hit. She couldn't deny him love, but what would it cost her?

She lay in her large bed, sniffling softly. It would be easy to engage in something intimate with him. She already had, to some degree. He'd bared parts of his soul to her that no one else would ever see. He _trusted_ her. Something told her that was no easy thing to win.

Yes, it would be effortless to give in. It would be insanely simple to cross those lines, to kiss him, touch him, writhe beneath him. What wouldn't be easy was the emotion that came with it.

What _was_ he to her? A charity case? A good deed? An object of curiosity? A social and psychological experiment? All of them…or something more?

He wasn't a charity case. She wasn't letting him have an easy go of it. She held him accountable for what he'd done and he knew it. Besides, Lucius Malfoy didn't take charity, and if he'd sensed even an iota of it in her, they would not be where they were right now.

He was a good deed, to be certain, and a definite object of curiosity. But she suspected she was the same to him. Their mutual desire to understand one another had been integral in making this happen. And to some small degree, he _was_ an experiment. Or at least she'd come here with every intention of making him one. Now that had mostly gone out the window. He was making all the alterations she thought to affect all on his own.

Lucius was changing, growing, trying to claw his way out of the prison of his life's cocoon. And for some reason, that thought made her cry harder. She hurt for him. She hurt so _badly_ for him…

She didn't know how long she'd been sobbing quietly when he came in. The bed dipped as he sat beside her and, with that same gentleness he'd displayed earlier, brushed her unruly curls away from her face.

_Please don't cry. Please don't. I am not worthy of your sadness. I haven't deserved anything that you have given me._

Hermione was still, a little bit stunned and belatedly trying to calm herself. She didn't know where the sudden surge of emotion had come from and it was proving difficult to quench. His fingers were stroking her hair, much as she'd done for him on the dark night of his firewhiskey confessions.

When at last she managed to regain a bit of composure, she looked up at him. He met her eyes, a sad concern reflected in his. Her heart spasmed. Emotions be damned. Consequences be damned. She rose up on her knees, took hold of his jaw on either side, and kissed him.

All was right for a minute. His lips parted, stroking hers sensually. His tongue darted out to meet its counterpart. His eyes slid closed. But then they snapped open, and he pulled back as if scalded.

Hermione blinked at him, hurt and confused. He was giving her the same look.

"You cannot…you cannot keep doing this to me!" he said.

"Doing what?" she asked, her voice hoarse from crying.

An expression of pain passed over his face. "You tempt me! You respond to me! And then you flee…twice, full of loathing for me…do you hate me?" His nostrils flared and his chin tilted up. "Is that what this is? Some kind of vengeance? I let you in, let you see me at my weakest…I dare to…_care_…and then you spurn me, leave me more broken than I already am?"

Hermione's eyes widened. "Lu--"

"Because if that is what you are doing, Hermione, you are crueler than I ever was."

"I would never--"

"Or perhaps you're just here to do whatever is necessary to get me to remove the Vow," he scowled, the meaning of his words clear in his voice. "But you are less able to control your revulsion than you thought."

Hermione did the only thing she could. She shot to her feet, drew her arm back, and slapped him. Her palm cracked wickedly across his cheek, hard enough that it caused a fair amount of stinging in her hand. It stilled his words. She had actually shocked Lucius Malfoy into silence.

"Don't you _dare_," she nearly shouted, "do me the disservice of thinking that I am just some vindictive bitch here to ruin you, or that I'd resort to whoring myself to get what I want!" Something very unkind was on the tip of her tongue and she quashed it, knowing that no matter how satisfying it would be to say it, it would wound him deeply.

"What do you expect me to think?" he said quietly, absently touching the red handprint that was blooming on his cheek. She would wager that very few people had ever been gutsy enough to do what she just had.

Hermione thought for a long time. She had caught herself seeking ulterior motives in his behavior not fifteen minutes ago. It wasn't unexpected that he'd do the same for her. It was ingrained in him. And truthfully, _any_ man would be insecure after the way she'd left him… She took a deep breath. The words came to her, flowing past her lips while her brain struggled to catch up.

"I expect you to think that I am just as scared as you, Lucius, and forgive me for it."

His lips parted, but nothing came out. Then he took a step back. "I…I do not want you to fear me."

"I don't," she said softly.

He nodded slowly. He looked supremely out of sorts, and mentally taxed, as if he were trying to solve an impossible equation. Evidently he arrived at some kind of answer, for he shook his head, once, as if a fly was buzzing at his ear.

"I don't know what you see in me," he murmured. "I am just a wretched, inferior husk of the man I used to be."

"No!" she said, stomping her foot. Suddenly vehement, she took a step toward him, her index finger raised. For once, she was the one invading his personal space and the slight furrow of his brow said that he didn't like it any more than she did. Maybe that would teach him something. But that wasn't the point. Impassioned, Hermione enunciated, "The man you used to be is just a wretched, inferior husk of what you _are_."

He blinked. She could almost see the words swimming in his head. They were so different from what he was used to. She prayed that he was ready to accept it. The reversal of mindset wasn't something he could grasp unless he wanted to…

Something in his face changed. It was very subtle and she couldn't assign a name to it. But in the next minute he was reaching for her, his hands closing around her forearms, and pulling her across the remaining space between them. When her chest hit his, his hands abandoned her arms in favor of her hair. He wound, tugged, and leaned down.

This time there was no hesitation and no question. His lips slotted over hers, soft and warm. Hermione responded without fear, allowing her hands to trail over his chest and her hips to lean into the top of his thighs. He was tall…and then thought disappeared, for his tongue breached her lips, sought hers, and tangled with fierce intent.

He wasn't ceding any control now. His hand trailed down to the small of her back and pressed her closer. Her mind flashed to its store of images of him nude, syncing the feel of his body to her knowledge of the way it looked. It made her knees wobbly, or maybe that was his kiss…

She had never been a tremendous fan of kissing. It was a skill that was so easily butchered. She had never understood how her school roommates could kiss boys for hours at a time; Hermione could barely tolerate ten minutes of it then, and it wasn't much different now. Parvati Patil had once told her that the only reason she didn't like kissing was because she'd never been with a good kisser. Every moment spent with Lucius's lips sealed over hers was proving Parvati right.

His lips were soft one moment and aggressive the next. It made her think of what it would be like to have them elsewhere on her body. And it must have transmitted to him somehow, for his mind opened in a floodgate, locking on to hers and producing that indefinable sensation of connection. As before, it made her gasp, and he took advantage by delving his sweet tongue further into her mouth. The warm, slow heat of arousal flushed in her abdomen.

He felt it. His hand went from her back to her buttocks almost independently, stroking the previously forbidden flesh. Through the fog of sensation it provoked, she tried to exert herself on his mind the way she had during the storm.

His mind was blank. Blank and thrumming and utterly focused – on _her_. Euphoric, she pressed against its borders and was rewarded with a moan against her lips. She was seized with the urge to tug at the fullness of his lower lip with her teeth. As she did, she felt his breathing speed up, tickling warmly across her face. That was when she knew. This was the man that she could kiss forever…if only they would let forever come…

* * *

Tiresias Smythe spun out of the floo and tried not to be as disoriented as he felt. His body thought it was three in the morning. Damn Lucius and damn Italy for being six hours ahead. He didn't get much sleep as a healer as it was, and this thing with Lucius was not helping.

He had only seen one other person reach the level of rage – or was it despair? – that Lucius had attained in that field of sunflowers. That person was dead. She was dead, and he would never forget it, for she was his first loss as a young healer. The first was the one you remembered forever.

Her face had been haunting him. Lucius's too, with the lick of flame in his eyes…he wasn't right. He was sicker than Tiresias had ever imagined. But he had Miss Granger, at least. He liked the young woman; there was a strength in her gaze that few people had.

He knew Miss Granger was competent to care for him, but he was worried nonetheless. That was why he'd come at this ungodly hour to check on him. The floo was in Lucius's room, so it was good that it was empty. Miss Granger had somehow convinced him to be up and about, bless her.

He felt a bit better already. He would go in search of them, and if they weren't in the house, he'd go home and go back to sleep until a more human hour. With that course of action firmly in place, he wandered out of the room.

As he'd done many times previously, he wondered just how much money Lucius had and where it came from. Only a very rich person could afford a villa like this. Hell, only a rich person could afford his treatment. Tiresias never charged him for visits, though. Lucius had refused charity early on and he let the man sign receipts that supposedly charged him, but he didn't really have the heart to take money from someone who seemed to be a guinea pig to fate, regardless of the surplus he had.

Lucius and Miss Granger (what was her first name?) were nowhere to be found. There was one more room, down a short hallway, that he should check. He reached out for the door, which was slightly ajar, and all of a sudden he felt a persistent battering on his shins.

He looked down in confusion. There, in a fine state of panic, was the house elf. The little thing was shaking her head emphatically, panic in her eyes.

"What is it?" he asked.

The elf made a shushing noise with her finger over her lips. Then she gestured away from the door, toward the common space.

"Is something the matter?" he demanded.

"Master Smythe must not interrupt!" the elf whispered.

"Interrupt what?" he dropped his voice.

"The master and the miss is…" she made inarticulate gestures with her fingers, "and Jo-Jo interrupted last time and they were most upset!"

Tiresias blinked. If he wasn't mistaken, the house elf was trying to tell him that she'd accidentally walked in on Lucius and Miss Granger in flagrante and was now trying to prevent it from happening again. That was all fine and dandy, but if Lucius was not using protection…

He reached for the door. The house elf squeaked in distress and tugged at his pant leg. The little thing must feel very strongly about this, because most house elves wouldn't dare to try to force their will upon a wizard, or physically try to discourage him from doing something. For her sake, he only opened the door a crack.

* * *

Hermione was all but incoherent. Lucius was worshipping her neck, his mouth scoring hot little circles of pleasure along the sensitive skin. That was compounded by his weight on top of her. It was perversely enjoyable to feel his body pressing her into the bed, and even more so to feel the evidence of his reaction against her hip.

Then he did what she'd been waiting for, unconsciously, for months. He moved a little higher, teased the border of her ear, and then slipped his tongue in. It was like lightning. A full-bodied moan escaped her lips and her low ebb of arousal was elevated to a thunderous roar. Her body arched of its own accord, lifting his weight slightly and pressing against him in a way that his mind told her was quite agreeable.

His hands moved down her body, stroking her sides, the length of her thigh, and one of them ghosting over her breast. The flat of his palm moving over her nipple was almost as disarming as his hot tongue working on her ear. Oh…the intensity with which she wanted him was a little disturbing.

That devilish mouth left her ear and was now trailing across her collar bone. When his lips met the obstruction of her dress strap, his fingers deftly hooked beneath it and pulled it aside, slipping it down her shoulder. She wasn't wearing a bra; it was one of those dresses with a built-in one, and thank goodness for that. He was kissing the space between her breasts, his hand stroking the soft fullness of the left one. She was going to explode.

* * *

Well. They were not having sex. Tiresias let out a small sigh of relief. However, it did look like they were well on their way to that eventual goal. As he looked on, Lucius slid the strap of her dress from her shoulder and took the rosy nipple it yielded in his mouth. At her soft mewl of pleasure, Tiresias stepped back from the door.

He had talked to Lucius about sex. He _could _still engage in it, but though he'd listened patiently, the blond hadn't shown much interest. The medications could do that – they could do any number of things – but he thought Lucius's lack of libido was purely psychosomatic. This was a good sign, then.

The question was, did Lucius remember what he'd told him? Did he remember that he had to use a barrier to keep his partner safe? Lucius was a smart man, but wizards didn't normally use those kinds of methods. Smythe paced, aware that the house elf's eyes were on him, wide and petrified.

* * *

The suction and hot warmth of his mouth felt delicious as he lavished attention on her nipples. She tangled a hand in his hair, tugging at the fragrant locks as his mind reflected her own pleasure back to her. Her mind begged her to stop and think but the drugging effect of their bond and sheer electric chemistry overruled it.

His teeth grazed over one of the sensitive peaks and she gasped softly, "Lucius!" His pale eyes flickered open. They fixed on her, warm and intense, as his tongue teased little stripes across her nipple, his balmy breath further stimulating her.

Even though he was lying on top of her, he wasn't close enough. She wanted to feel him. Hermione tugged at his shirt, which he allowed her to divest him of. His skin was warm and smooth and created a most agreeable friction against hers. She gave in to her id and dug her nails into his muscular shoulders.

"Yes," he whispered softly, barely an exhalation against her neck before his lips rose to cover hers again. He kissed her hard, his lips domineering, and she fought his tongue stroke for stroke. She was moving against him free from any conscious thought, her hands roving across his arms, shoulders, back, and reaching for his buttocks. She couldn't remember a time when she'd been so turned on. The thought strayed across their bond and a deep satisfaction flowed into her mind. She was bolstering Lucius Malfoy's ego and for once she didn't mind at all. In fact, she'd gladly do more of it if it meant feeling like this.

Her body knew that he was settling between her legs. Every part of her thrilled at that; it was where he _belonged. _And his fingers, feather light, were sliding the hem of her dress sensually up her thighs. She wrapped her legs around him, ankles locking at the small of his back. It angled her up so that his hardness, still contained in his trousers, could press against her core. His hips flexed down of their own accord as he sucked on her tongue; her hands abandoned other quarry to reach for the fastenings of the damning clothing that separated her from what she wanted.

Her hand straying over the front of his trousers gave him a jolt. Her lips were suddenly bereft of his and if not for the circle of her legs around him, he might have pulled away. As it was, a tide of shame permeated their connection. It pounded in her skull in a dull, despairing ache. He would not meet her eyes.

She surveyed him. He was beautiful; his cheeks were tinted pink, his lips swollen from their conquest, his hair a bit messy in a way that made her unaccountably happy. She ran her eyes along the strong muscles of his arms, flexed as he held himself up, and the perfect plane of his chest, which she had discovered did have a slight smattering of pale, soft hair between the well-shaped pectorals.

"What's the matter?" she said softly, raising a hand to cup his cheek. It was the one she'd slapped; her handprint still lingered faintly on the flushed skin.

The shame and mortification that radiated from him made her stomach hurt. When he finally spoke, his face looked like he would welcome death.

"I…I cannot give you what you want. What you deserve."

"Why?" she challenged.

"Don't make me say it, Hermione. You know why."

She wound her fingers into his hair and pulled, forcing him to look at her. He fairly burned with humiliation, but didn't look away.

* * *

Lucius's voice drifted to the healer, startling him out of his frenzied thoughts.

"I…I cannot give you what you want. What you deserve."

Smythe wanted to scream at him. _Yes you can, you idiot!_ He was half tempted to floo to his practice, root through a cabinet, floo back, and throw a pack of condoms at the man's head. However, that might be something of a mood killer. Not to mention it would give up the fact that he was standing here shamelessly and witnessing things he probably shouldn't witness. Honestly, the situations he found himself in sometimes! Such was the life of a healer.

Still, he couldn't risk Miss Granger's safety. If he had to march in there and destroy the fragile magic, he would. He was rather good at dodging hexes. And once he thoroughly educated Lucius on what he needed to do to properly bed his young accomplice, there would be more exhortations of thanks than hexes.

* * *

She searched his face. In spite of the fact that his arousal had flagged, she could tell how badly he wanted her. The man she had known once upon a time would have followed that desire and taken her, heedless of the consequence, perhaps even reasoning to himself that she deserved it. This man had promised not to hurt her and was trying to keep that promise at the expense of his own satisfaction. It was decidedly not Lucius. Or, rather, it was a part of Lucius that she'd never seen before.

"There are ways, Lucius," she said, feeling overwhelmingly tender. "Didn't Healer Smythe tell you?"

Lucius shifted his weight and lay half on top of her, his thigh resting between her legs and his head on her shoulder. He twirled a corkscrewed brown curl around his finger.

"He did. I…I was in shock. I couldn't…I don't remember what he told me," he admitted quietly.

She ran her fingers through his hair and his eyes closed automatically; he was like a cat in that way, easily pleased by the stimulation. She had never met a man as sensory as him. Every touch, every scent, and every taste meant something him. It was decadent and simple at the same time. Again, that study in contrasts…

_I want you so badly._ His mind's voice was frustrated and shame still lingered on its edges. _I have not wanted anyone since I found out I had this plague. But you…I want you, and you are the one thing I can't just take…I don't know how to do this. I have always either been the master or the servant…I don't know how to be anything in between._

Her eyes widened slightly at his confession, and at his unexpressed desire for equality. He had come so far; _so_ far, and he was not just scared, he was petrified. He was being thrown into a reality where he didn't know how to function and she was his only lifeboat.

She wrapped her arms around him and hugged tightly. He gave a slight, involuntary grunt at the crushing pressure of her embrace, but responded by burrowing his nose and cheek against her neck.

"We'll figure it out," Hermione said softly. She slid her hand into his and pulled it gently upwards, where she laid his palm across her breast. "This is just a start. Tomorrow you can floo Smythe…and…and we'll go from there."

* * *

Tiresias couldn't fight the smile that wanted to overtake his face. He wasn't going to have to interrupt. They both realized they needed to use precautions. Miss Hermione Granger was a clever lady, and also an incredibly brave and compassionate one. Most women would be too afraid of Lucius's diagnosis to be anywhere near him.

On the other side, it said a lot about Lucius's feelings that he was so worried about the possibility of infecting her. As a member of the male species, Tiresias could attest that sometimes the pull of arousal was so strong that everything else lost its importance. That would be especially true of a man who had not felt desire or acted on it in three years. But here Lucius was, three years abstinent, able to control the bludgeoning throb of desire to make sure the object of it was safe. It was more consideration than some perfectly healthy men showed.

Well, he could save Lucius the trip tomorrow. Smythe nodded at the house elf, who nearly collapsed with relief, before turning and heading back to the floo in Lucius's room.

* * *

Her words hung between them.

_…just a start…_

_…we'll go from there…_

Hermione's heart was pounding. What was she doing? Never before had she leapt off the precipice so carelessly. Never before had there been a precipice quite like this…

Intoxicating, but terrifying. So beautiful…like everything she had ever wanted, but packaged with damaged goods. Maybe after all this Lucius could break the chains of the albatross pendant that hung around his neck. Maybe there was some way for them to be happy…

_Them_.

It was too late. She was already lost. His hand had slipped from her breast to brace on the bed and he was looking at her, long and searching.

_Us._

It was the only word that passed between their minds before he leaned down to claim her lips.


	14. Chapter 14

Author's Note: Wow, guys, that was a lot of reviews! Thanks for representing and being so well-spoken and considerate. Keep up the good work - I will if you will. ;)

Chibi06: Thank you. To me that's the trademark of a good story, if you can just blister through it, unable to move away. :) So thanks for the compliment.

Swytla: Sorry you missed your breakfast. It seems like it was worth it. :) 'Dissecting the human mind' - I like that. Thank you for the compliments, they're greatly appreciated. Hope you continue to enjoy the story and everything it brings.

Kagome093: Hey there! Yup, I have a few things up here that aren't on GE, so feel free to read away. :) This was the first place I posted fanfic so my penname is different. Good to see you and thanks for the review!

rhilindia: No, don't die, then you'll never know what happens! Here's some more to tide you over.

BelhavenOnTap: Thank you. Yes, I always felt that Lucius was one of several characters that was woefully underdeveloped, and every villain has a reason for becoming what he or she is. I'm just glad I can play with such an interesting and complicated character and people like what I do. :) And regarding Lucius's mother, I wasn't attempting to make her an awful person, just a flawed one. You seem to understand that. I hope others do, as well. The blame doesn't rest entirely on her; Abraxas wasn't very useful, either, and it can be said that the other adults in his life failed him, as well. Where was Dumbledore (ever wonder why Lucius really hated him so much?)? Slughorn? Any teacher or friend? I don't want it to be a classic 'blame the mother/woman' situation because there is so much more to it than just his mother's betrayal. Thanks for the thoughtful reviews. :)

cwtigerlily: Thank you so much. I'm working on the original books; I just need to finish school and have a stable career before I venture there. In a few years maybe you can pick up one of my stories from the shelf at Barnes and Noble (I hope and wish I have that level of success!). Sorry about the sleep deprivation. You say you're going to college soon? Get used to sleep deprivation, then (if you aren't already). ;)

Marble Meadow: Thank you. That's such high praise and I hope that reading what I write will help to inspire you.

Redone: Hi there! No, Amphitrite is not abandoned...just...incubating. I am halfway through the next chapter, but my muse has been ambushing me with plot bunnies that gnaw until I write them. Blame the muse. points at her Thank you, I do love writing Lucius, he's just so...intriguing. This seems to be a theme here, me keeping people awake...sorry... :)

agnessa9: Thank you. I'm working on posting at some other archives. I just don't want to stretch myself too thin and this site holds a special value to me, since it was where I first got into reading and writing fanfiction. Want to write my story summaries for me? What you said in your review is an excellent blurb. ;)

AcidPop101: Thank you!

Lady Verity: Thanks for continuing to read and review. I can't imagine Mrs. Malfoy was all that happy, herself...as I said to Belhaven, I don't want her to be completely vilified, because she, too, had her demons. I do think that Lucius will never quite forgive her and that sometimes it is easier to deal with what a person's done to you once they're gone and you know they are at last facing some kind of retribution.

iamtherealmaverick: Yes, we are indeed moving! And I'm glad you like Jo-Jo. She's a darling and may be just the elf to reverse Lucius's innate hatred of her kind.

Mendelbra: I hope your muse was resurrected and will refrain from any cliffdiving in the future. :) Thanks. I do love Smythe...I need to figure out something to reward him with at the end of the fic. Any suggestions?

allycat1186: It can get more erotic. smirk Thanks and enjoy!

SpaceyMoonFlower: I like to think that all (or most) of my chapters are worth waiting for, but here you go!

RegrettingCrimson: New name? Yes, I know I'm evil. I've come to terms with it. :)

Clearheart: Yes, I know I have Lucius and Hermione in a big isolated bubble right now. That's going to continue for a while but all your questions WILL be addressed at some point. Our protagonists are smart people but some secrets just can't be kept. ;)

Pookiepantsmcpoo: No problem. And thanks!

Alchemelia: Gone for a few weeks? Then you haven't missed anything. Hope this satisfies the craving. :) Thanks for reading & reviewing.

GurloftheNight: Thanks!

AcademicDragon: Nope, not the last chapter. Too many loose ends yet to tie up, and too much fun to be had. Thanks, I'm glad I could make a more unusual pairing land that high on the list.

EarwenTelrunya: Well, this chapter is quite long, so perhaps that will satisfy you? :)

Blue Willow S: Thank you. Ah, Natalie Merchant. I haven't heard much of Natalie or 10,000 Maniacs. I shall add them to the list. I listen to very moody, complex music when I write this fic. Do people care what I listen to? Cause this fic definitely has a pseudo-soundtrack.

littlevampirebaby: Thanks, here's some more.

MissCreant: Your penname is such a roller derby name. If I ever join a team, do you mind if I steal it? Thanks for the compliments, hope you enjoy the rest. :)

darklady5289: Thankfully, the house is probably flame-retardant. ;)

lucas'mom: Quick? I don't know, hehe. The thing with Hermione is she's caught between the muggle and magical world, and condoms aren't in wide use in the magical world. Ron, being an inhabitant of said magical world, doesn't use them - he and Hermione don't need them because of spells and charms that serve the same purpose. Otherwise I'd agree with you that Hermione, as a smart, modern woman, would have her own stash. Oh, and I know all about family dramas...and YOU'RE FROM NEAR SCRANTON? I totally went to the University of Scranton for undergrad!! It's hotter in Philly. Absorb the heat while you can up in NEPA...soon it will be October and it will start snowing or just being miserably cold and cloudy. I don't miss that. You hit the family planning aisle girl and make that AC work double time. ;)

Robyn Hawkes: Yes, one can't help but love a repentant Lucius.

SlytherinDragoon: Get ready for another cold shower.

GiggleGinny: I say with relatively little shame that I'd love to get an eyeful of Lucius or the lovely Mr. Isaacs. Our lovers are proceeding with caution...

Azrulai: Thank you, they will only heat up from here! The albatross pendant/metaphor was not of my own creation; actually it's a reference to Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. It's one of my favorite pieces of poetry ever. It's from this piece that the albatross took on the metaphorical meaning of a burden someone must bear. I think the poem is a really good read and it isn't terribly long; it contains some very classic lines and is generally a good, if slightly macabre story. Check it out. P.S. - I'm still insanely jealous that you went to Iceland.

loveismagic: You're welcome. Here's some more.

Drachegirl14: Thank you! More hotness on the way.

Velvet Storm: Yes, one is generally overcome with the urge to snuggle Lucius. Here's a sign up sheet for Lucius snuggles. hangs it on the wall

* * *

They had switched places. Hermione was the one sitting at the desk, posed over a blank sheet of parchment, and Lucius was perched in the windowsill lost in thought. He hadn't asked her to return the sheaf of parchment that was Soif, nor did he press her about what she was doing now. In fact, he had been very, very quiet on all fronts since they had reluctantly emerged from her bedroom.

He hadn't pressed her for anything. Though it was clear that he had been left in an uncomfortable state after their prolonged kissing and touching, he had not protested her desire to come up for air. Of course, she'd be lying if she tried to say that she wasn't left in an uncomfortable state, too – uncomfortably aroused. But she wasn't ready to lose complete control with him yet. The more she thought about it, the more grateful she was that for just one moment, Lucius's condition had reared its ugly head and slowed her down.

Now, as she stared into the paper, all she could see was Ron's face. _What_ did this mean? She had thought, once upon a time, that she was in love with Ron. Now it seemed all too easy to forget about him. Was it just this? This isolation with Lucius?

She glanced at him. He was staring out at the fertile world beyond their Tuscan window. He looked so normal like that, pensive, unguarded…she wondered where his mind roamed. She hoped that wherever it was, it was pleasant, for she knew very well that there were many unpleasant things lurking in his head.

This task was similarly unpalatable. She felt like Ron deserved more than a Dear John letter. She wanted to be with Lucius so much that it hurt, but she couldn't bring herself to do it while she was still attached to Ron.

She stared at Lucius a while longer before saying, "If you were still married to Narcissa, would you have separated from her before…being with me?"

"Do you want me to be honest?" he asked, not turning away from his view.

"Yes."

He stretched one of his legs out. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"That is what I said." His retort didn't have any bite to it; it was noncommittal.

"Why?"

"I am not sure we would even be here if I was still married," he said. "It's situational. I can't know what I would have done."

"That's a Slytherin response if ever I heard one," she smiled. That at last drew his gaze away from the countryside.

"Perhaps." His eyes traveled over her, once, a knowing sweep. "Do you want to separate from Ronald before you are with me?"

Hermione's eyes widened. "You knew all this time that I was with him?"

"No, I didn't. I suspected it might be the case, though, and you have just confirmed it."

"Then how could you just take someone else's woman?" she demanded. She wasn't sure how to feel, as was often the case around him.

"It is not a matter of taking. I've already said I can't and won't just take when it comes to you. I wouldn't have stopped you the other day, when you wanted to leave." He leaned his head against his bent knee, watching her closely. "It's yourself you're angry at, not me."

"I'm not angry!" she snapped. A moment later she sighed, because she had just proved his point.

"I know you could care less what I think, but he doesn't deserve you. He doesn't stimulate you, or make you feel appreciated, or give you what you need."

"How do you know?" she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "You're just saying that because he's a Weasley and you don't like them."

"I would say it whether he was a Weasley or not. We are in each other's minds, Hermione. You have barely thought of him." He frowned. "It's true that I don't know much about love, but the clichés say that if you loved him, he would fill your mind. You would miss him, spend hours pining after him, waiting until you could be reunited. You would think of his smile. His eyes. All that." A thought strayed past his defenses, seeping into her mind. _I have fortunately been spared the Ronald Weasley love parade._

She cast a half-hearted glare at him and sunk down further in the chair. She didn't know what had inspired this great outburst of verbosity from him, but everything he was saying was much too accurate.

"He's…he just doesn't…" she trailed off.

Lucius unfolded his legs from the windowsill. "Lovers will always come with stipulations, I think. But some are more tolerable than others." He stood and advanced on her, leaning down with his hands on the arms of the chair. "I want you," he whispered, heat invading his words. "I want every inch of you. But I will wait for you to do what you need to do." He kissed her softly on the forehead and then retreated without another word.

She sat there, a little stunned, for minutes that went uncounted. She never would have expected such patience from Lucius. It seemed like he was taking her assertion that he was becoming a better version of himself to heart. It was still rather questionable of him to have pursued her when he knew she was involved with someone, but she couldn't muster any anger for it. She hadn't exactly resisted him.

Her own psychology confused her. She had been much more accepting of this arrangement with Lucius than she ever thought possible; Hermione of yesteryear would have found a way to have the man arrested and thrown back in Azkaban. But even if she couldn't quite fathom herself, she could see the route Lucius had taken to this point.

It had never been his intent to actually desire her. Those first bold flirtations had been pure intimidation, designed to exploit his weaponized sexuality and her susceptibility to it. Just another way to get what he wanted. What she had nearly said to him earlier when he obliquely accused her of using her body to get him to lift the Vow was: _I'm not you, Lucius._ Whether he realized it or not, he relied on his looks as much as any seductress and she would bet that he had used sex to further his agenda more than once. But hypocrisy was never easy to spot in yourself; her exacting observation was not something he needed when he already thought he was useless and beyond repair.

So yes, initially it had all been an act to keep her in line. But then, when she had called him on his strategy, the game shifted. Something within _him_ shifted. Then she had stood up to him, tripping him on the road, and there was no more acting. That intimidation had been real. So had the tension radiating between them. He needed her, but she was too smart for his games or his control. After that he had gone into full retreat.

They had circled around one another, neither sure what to expect. She had fired the first shot by solving the riddle of his divorce. Shockingly, he let that shell pierce him and tried a new strategy in the form of earnestness. That was his letter. It had put them back on level ground.

Then she had upped the ante by demanding to be called by her first name. But as far as he was concerned, there was taking a hit one couldn't avoid and there was submitting to a wound that one could. She had no doubt that the stalemate would have gone on indefinitely, if more comfortably, if not for her illness.

The heatstroke had placed control firmly back in his hands. Once he had it back, he had promptly thrown it all away. He'd used her name, cared for her, sacrificed his own comfort and time, and stayed with her until he knew she was better. Lucius had laid down his weapons to the advancement of fate.

Fate had cruel but purposeful ideas. Through pain it had pushed him into her arms. Through curiosity and compassion it had made her embrace him. But Hermione couldn't help thinking that right now, fate had stepped away, leaving them entwined and teetering on the edge of the devil's chasm that was free choice.

With a heavy sigh, she set the quill to the parchment.

_Dear Ron,_

_I really need to see you, today. This is extremely important. Tell the people at your auror training that it's an emergency. I will vouch for you. I don't want to upset you; it isn't really an emergency, but like I said it is extremely important. Please, be at my flat at 15:30. I know this is short notice, so I'll wait one hour for you. If you can come, but will be later than 16:30, please owl me._

_Hermione_

Blinking, she lowered the quill. It had come out in one big jumble and her hand hurt from writing so fast without any pause except to re-dip once for ink. She wondered if this was what writing felt like for Lucius. Her letter was no literary gem, that was for certain, but it was going to determine how the rest of this plot played out…

She picked it up, blew on the ink to dry it, and folded the letter. Belatedly she realized that she didn't have a bird to send it with. Bugger. With a sigh, Hermione wandered towards Lucius's room to ask if he knew of anywhere to get a post owl.

He was reclining in his bed reading something intently. After a moment's scrutiny she realized that it was the copy of The Critiquill. But more exciting than that, he was polishing off the last bite of toast smeared with red jam. There was another piece on a plate on the night stand. He was eating of his own volition and without any badgering from her. She resisted the urge to smile because she knew it would annoy him.

"I have a stalker," he said when he finished chewing.

"I know. I read it."

"Naturally." He picked up the second piece of toast. _Going to yell at me for eating in bed?_

She smirked at him. _Very indecorous, Mr. Malfoy._

"My father would've hided me," he said conversationally, and then bit into the toast with gusto.

Hermione was puzzled but heartened at his odd mood. He could be as odd as he wanted if it meant he would take care of himself and be generally agreeable. "That article doesn't worry you at all? They sound pretty serious."

"I have no doubt that they're serious. But so am I."

"You _are_ safe, right?"

"I might have lost my will to live, but not my wits."

"Lucius!" she said, exasperated. She hated when he said things like that.

_It was past tense, you know._

Her eyes flickered up to him. His answering gaze was subdued but meaningful. Hermione heard the rustle of paper when he closed the magazine and remembered why she had come in.

"Do you know where I can get a post owl? I have to send this."

"The owl that I assume delivered this," he held up the thin magazine, "never left. It's out in the tree to the right of the fountain."

"Oh," she said. Well, that was fortuitous. She turned to leave and then stopped. "Who is P. Netherwood?"

He frowned, his demeanor instantly changed. "Where did you hear that name?"

"It was on the letter that came with that magazine. He's the one who sent it. Didn't you see the letter?"

He flipped through a few pages and pulled out the scrap of paper. It was rippled with water damage, the ink blurred beyond legibility. "If you mean this, yes, I saw it, but unless it is a Rorschach test, I can't do much with it."

Memory came to Hermione in a flash. She had been so out of sorts from Lucius's absence days before that she had put the scrap of paper down on the bag that had been wrapped around the magazine – the bag that was soaked with drops of rainwater. Then she had shoved the note in the magazine without even noticing, and there it had stayed, soaking through with the water it had picked up and making the ink run to the point of no return.

"It was from P. Netherwood. The signature was a stamp. The note said something like 'You might be interested in the article on page 36'." She stopped and thought. "How do you know what a Rorschach test is?"

"I read about it in one of your muggle novels and didn't know what it was so I looked it up while I was in Australia."

_Ah, so you have been nicking my books._

_Ah, _he shot back, _so you have been reading my mail._

She was beaten. Hermione contemplated him. What he'd done to figure out the Rorschach test was disturbingly – no, exactly – like what she would have done.

"The book," he said suddenly, "had some sarcastic joke about a character, saying that the only thing he could see in a Rorschach blot was his mother. That sounded rather hellish to me…I wanted to know what it was and how to avoid it."

She had to smile. At the same time, she experienced that same pained feeling she'd gotten when he made the joke about losing his will to live. She knew dark humor was healthy, but his bordered on uncomfortably honest at best and morbid at the worst.

"So what do you see in that blot?" she asked, nodding towards the ruined letter.

"It's not much better than reading tea leaves," he snorted. "But in this case, I definitely see stupidity." He sat up and swung his legs over the bed, standing. "Stupidity that will be remedied shortly." Lucius brushed by her, heading out to the common area. As he did, he spoke over his shoulder, "Don't send your letter yet. I need to send one also."

He was at the desk already scribbling when she emerged. Haltingly, she set her letter down near his arm.

"Don't read it."

"I won't."

She caught a glimpse of what he was writing.

_…not like to have to elaborate to you how precarious…_

"Who is Netherwood?"

"It is better if I don't tell you."

Hermione bit her lips. Damn it. His secrecy wounded her. After all this…after _everything_…he felt that he couldn't trust her?

"Is it?" she managed, trying to sound conversational and failing miserably.

His hand paused. He had perceived the hurt in her voice. Lucius sighed.

_He is my publisher. Patrick Netherwood._

"Your publisher!" she nearly exploded. "And he put a name on something he sent to you?"

"Apparently so," Lucius said grimly. "Hence the stupidity."

"Doesn't he understand that someone could intercept it? Doesn't he--"

_Hermione_. The cool, calm boom of his voice in her skull stopped the rising tide of worry. "He will understand by the end of this letter. Which will be unsigned, untraceable, and unreadable to anyone who is not Netherwood."

Hermione relaxed slightly. But the worry niggled at her; what if the damage had already been done? She voiced that thought and Lucius did not immediately answer. The quill scratched on, probably lashing Netherwood fiercely.

"If," Lucius started a moment later, very calm, _too_ calm, "my identity has been compromised, then there is nothing I can do about it." He crossed a t with a firm slash. "Salazar Slytherin said that you must cross a bridge when you come to it. He also said that before you come to it, you should have a plan for everything that could possibly happen while you are crossing the span."

"But you don't _know_ all the possibilities," she protested.

His mouth flattened into a hard line and his eyes went flinty.

"I know enough."

* * *

Hermione was at her flat. It felt small, dark, and confined. Crookshanks was the only bright spot; he rubbed against her legs ostentatiously and was clearly glad to see her. She had spelled his food, water, and litter box before leaving, so he was taken care of, but like most familiars he missed his mummy when she was not present for him to annoy.

She was thankful for his presence, though, as the minutes ticked by. He kept her attention off the clock, at least superficially. She sat on the couch and stroked his soft but clumpy fur, watching his puffy tail twitch from side to side. As it passed 16:00, the thought crossed her mind that Crookshanks was truly the only male who had ever loved her unconditionally.

She dug her nails into his fur and scratched just the way he liked. The cat purred happily and in a few minutes his eyes drooped closed. If only Crooks was a real man and not just an eleven pound, pug-faced ball of unruly orange fur…

Well, if Ron didn't show up, she would soon be describing him similarly. In a way she was banking on his absence, but she knew that if it happened, it would hurt. If he showed up, well, she wasn't sure she would be able to break up with him, and that would hurt in an entirely different sort of way. Oh, what was she doing to herself?

It was the most excruciating hour of her life. Maybe that was an exaggeration, as she could recall times that were worse, but it was the slowest, most tension-riddled hour she had passed in a long time. But when the clock switched from 16:29 to 16:30, there was no Ron. There was no owl, either. She had checked everywhere, including outside.

Outwardly, she was calm. She wasn't going to do anything rash. She checked for a third time that she hadn't mixed up the hour with the time difference; she hadn't. Then there was the possibility that Ron hadn't gotten the message. Lucius had mentioned he was going to request delivery notices to make sure their messages were received, but his in particular; she couldn't blame him. The logical thing was to floo and ask him if the letters had been delivered.

Robotically, she moved to her floo. She said the password to open it to the network and then took a small handful of powder. Throwing it in, she said,

"Lucius Malfoy."

That would only work for her and Smythe; Lucius had told her as much. Anyone else who called his name into the floo would be referred to a house elf at the Manor. Sure enough, the shape of his room at the Tuscan villa materialized as she stepped forward and stuck her head into the green flames.

"Lucius?"

He wasn't in the room. However, he either heard her call his name or the sound of the fireplace connecting. A moment later he strode in.

"Is everything--"

"It's fine. Did you get the delivery notices?"

He paused slightly at her brusque tone. Then he nodded. He reached into his pocket and extracted two scraps of parchment.

"Mr. Netherwood received my note at 13:13 – I hope that is not an omen. Your note was delivered at 14:06." He looked at the floor for a brief moment, and then back up to her glance. "Mr. Weasley signed for it."

She nodded. "Okay." She couldn't think of anything else to say; her brain was blanking. "I…okay." An expression of concern spread over his features, but she couldn't bear to see it; as he opened his mouth, Hermione stepped back out of the floo and cut the connection. Then she disconnected the floo from the network and walked the four steps to the couch. And there she sat for the next thirty minutes, numb from head to toe.

* * *

When at last her brain began to work again, Hermione looked around the room. It still felt small, like a jail cell almost; all the little touches that she'd once found heart-warming felt foreign. There was not enough light and its aged smell was suddenly aversive.

Lucius had been right. She didn't miss Ron. What she had missed in those weeks before the life-changing run-in with Lucius was the idea of Ron. The security of him, of knowing that she had someone. The familiarity. She had become one of those women who clung because they feared that there would never be anybody else. One of those women who thought that a sub-par relationship was the best she was capable of having.

This entire situation was just a microcosm of everything with Ron. The relationship was built on convenience – for him. If it wasn't important to him, it wasn't important. That had never changed from day one. It was the way he had been raised. Hermione thought Molly was a great mother; one would be hard pressed to find someone more dedicated to her children. However, for Ron it had resulted in him expecting to be catered to and taken care of. Hermione had been raised very differently.

She was an only child. Both of her parents had successful dental practices, and her birth hadn't stopped either of them from working. Hermione didn't mind; she had always had excellent babysitters and her parents made sure that they got to spend quality time with her every single day. She didn't feel like she had missed anything. However, that upbringing had made her a very independent person. Early on she had learned that no one else was going to solve her problems and that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. So was Ron, but why bother if someone else would do it for you?

Up until this point, Hermione had. She had exasperatedly gone along with it, except in certain cases where she put her foot down. But it was never going to change. Ron was never going to change. No amount of compromise or cajoling would work. The bottom line was that him not showing up when she asked him (and had explicitly indicated that it was extremely important)…was a reflection of how much he cared about her and her needs.

He would deny it to the ends of the earth. He also wouldn't understand why she was angry at him in the first place; he never did in instances like this. She was tired of it. There were women out there who liked to take care of their men, who enjoying doing everything for them, being a long-suffering, substitute mother type. Hermione wasn't one of them. As bossy as she could sometimes be, she had no tolerance for the incompetence of others – especially not the planned incompetence that men like Ron used.

As she was thinking, still rooted to the couch, there was a tapping at the window. Her head jerked up. If Ron _dared_ to show up now…but it wasn't him. It was an owl. Hermione's jaw clenched of its own accord. If this letter was not an apology on par with Shakespeare, she was going to become very, very angry.

She fed the owl a treat and took the note. The likelihood of this letter being anything but inflammatory was very low. She knew Ron. Ron had very little tact and even less common sense. Those were things you just couldn't teach a man.

So even as she unfolded it, she knew she wouldn't like it. Her hands were already shaking in angry anticipation. Ron didn't disappoint.

_Hermione,_

_I don't know what is going on with you lately, but you left with no explanation and have only sent me one paragraph of communication in the last ten days. Now you expect me to just drop everything and come to see you? I'm not on vacation like you, Hermione. I can't just leave. Today we're working on flying formations for aerial battles. I can't miss it. I won't miss it just because you decide that you finally want to talk to me at the most inconvenient time. I'll try to get coverage this weekend and come to see you then._

_Ron _

There was something truly terrible about people living up to your bad expectations. She tried to stay calm but her mind couldn't be quelled. What if there was something seriously wrong? What if she was his wife? What if she was pregnant with his children? Would he still refuse to see her, then? Would aerial formations that they would practice for weeks still be more important?

She had talked to Harry about the auror training regimens. She had it on his authority that _nothing_ was completed in one day. The core of an auror's training was practice; grueling, repetitive practice. Ron might miss two hours of one session. What would it matter? They would be back out there tomorrow doing the same formation, and whatever he missed he'd be caught up on by Harry. The auror trainers were lenient, knowing that many of their students had families and other obligations. In the aftermath of the war they knew they were lucky that _anyone_ wanted to be an auror; the best way to prevent a shortage was to be flexible and keep their trainees motivated.

Was it so much to ask that he take her seriously when she said something was important? Was it so demanding to want him to be where she asked, when she asked, just once? Hermione didn't think so.

It was pretty damned ballsy of him to send a letter forty minutes _after_ her grace period expired, and never mind the content of said letter. Ron apparently had a unique gift for insulting her and everything about her in only a few sentences. This letter said, in veiled words, that this was her fault, she was impinging on his time, her job and life were less important than his, and that what she wanted and needed was of less meaning to him than flying formations.

Hermione crumpled the letter up and transfigured it into catnip. Crookshanks was on it in a second, shooting out from under the couch to attack the clump of dried green leaves. That was about all the letter was good for – giving Crooks a decent high.

She thought about writing a response. She was of half a mind to do it. However, she thought that it would be much more satisfying if she gave no reply, let him show up on Saturday, and then forty minutes after he arrived, sent him a letter saying that they were through and she never wanted to speak to him again. Lucius would be proud.

Lucius…

Hermione sighed. There was no guarantee that he was the better choice. Then again, there was no guarantee that he wasn't. He was smart; she would never have to water herself down for him. He could do things for himself. In fact, she foresaw more trouble with him trying to run _her_ life than his own, though perhaps he knew better. She was drawn to him in a way that she'd never felt with anyone else. It was heady and dangerous; he was that kind of man.

Every woman needed at least one of those, right? A story for the grandchildren? A man who could make her feel like a goddess during the brief but wild ride. A man who made her abandon all sense and just…live. That was no small task, to make Hermione Granger shut off her mind and exist in the now.

It was time to start. She rocketed off the couch and bent down to pick up her stoned cat. She didn't know when she'd be back to her flat and she suspected that Crooks would enjoy Tuscany. He would have a playmate in the little orange kitten, a nice warm windowsill to lounge on, and two people to annoy instead of just one. That sounded like cat heaven to her.

Hermione grabbed a few things and then set the floo to lock after she went through. She could only imagine what flooing would be like for Crookshanks under the influence of catnip; the thought made her smile as she grabbed a handful of powder and once again called out Lucius's name.

* * *

She lost her balance as she went through, of course. And Lucius just so happened to be sitting in the chair right near the fireplace. In a plume of ash, she squeaked and fell into his lap. It was a good thing he had quick reflexes; he dropped the book he was reading and opened his arms to cushion her fall just in time.

Crookshanks was mashed between them, and under different circumstances he probably would have clawed the hell out of Lucius. Fortunately, his little cat brain was completely blown by the floo and the subsequent fall. He was still between them, with wide, dazed eyes, the very end of his tail twitching.

"Hello," Lucius said at last, trying to suppress a smile.

"I'm sorry. I didn't elbow you or anything, did I?"

"No."

Hermione winced. She was actually on his lap sideways. She tried to get up, but his hands held her still.

"Is everything all right? You…left suddenly before, and this seems like it was a rather hasty trip."

Crookshanks chose that moment to wiggle out from between them and jump down to the floor. He didn't land very gracefully, and when he began to walk it resembled a wave pattern more than a straight line. Lucius raised an eyebrow at her.

"That's my familiar, Crookshanks. He's just had catnip. He isn't usually like that."

He nodded. _And my question?_

_I'm fine._

Another raised eyebrow. _Are you certain? I will understand if you need time to yourself. You were kind enough to give it to me._

Manners. How refreshing.

"Really, I'm fine. I just…" her eyes drifted down to the book he'd dropped to try to escape the intensity of his gaze. "Hey! That's mine. Will you stop nicking my books?"

"You haven't given my manuscript back yet. I have nothing else to do."

She met his eyes again, realizing he was right. "Do you promise not to try to destroy it again?"

"Promises are a--"

"Fool's contract, I know," she bit off, irritated. "Where did you learn that phrase? Your father?" She said it on purpose, to jar him.

It worked. Some of the relaxation drained out of his face. _Yes. He used to say that to me when I was younger. Nothing had any value to him unless it was guaranteed, through blood, money, or magic._ He swallowed, looking distinctly uncomfortable. _I guess I am more like him than I know._

Her heart spasmed. She hadn't meant for it to bring Lucius down, only to remind him of the source of his ingrained response – and therefore of its complete lack of validity.

"You're nothing like him," she said softly.

"You didn't know him," he responded. "I was exactly like him. I was worse."

"Past tense, you know," Hermione intoned, echoing his sentiments from their discussion earlier.

He sighed and leaned his face into her chest. A moment of silence stretched. Then his mind said,

_Are you going to stay with me?_

She lifted a hand to stroke his hair. Her departure had been rather cryptic before. He had probably spent the better part of an hour wondering if she would come back at all. He wouldn't admit to worrying, or to being massively nervous about leaving so much up to chance, but she could feel it in his mind.

Hermione twined her fingers into his pale mane and tugged gently, so that he looked up. Once he did, she closed her eyes and kissed him. As she'd hoped, his lips chased everything away; thoughts of Ron, of how careless this was, and the desperate little voice in the back of her mind that said _he will hurt you Hermione he will ruin you if you let yourself fall because even if he miraculously turns into a saint he is going to die he is going to leave you and what will you have then…_

They were breathing one another's air, lips millimeters apart in that drunk way that new lovers had.

"I'm staying," Hermione whispered. _Indefinitely._

* * *

They had kissed and touched and luxuriated in one another for nearly an hour. She might go so far as to say they had snogged one another into near-unconsciousness after their resettlement to the bed. However, Lucius's stomach had at last propelled them back to reality.

As it rumbled again, loudly, an incredulous look moved over his face.

"I'm…hungry," he said, amazed.

Hermione smiled. "That's good. Do you want to tell Jo-Jo to cook something?"

"No. Let's go into the village." He pressed one more gentle, chaste kiss to her lips and extracted the thigh that he'd worked between hers. He winced as he stood; there was a definite tent in his trousers that still demanded attention. She felt much the same, though the only tangible evidence of her roaring desire was the current saturated state of her undergarments.

She raised an eyebrow at him. He raised one right back. And then he fairly tackled her back onto the bed. His hand was in her knickers before she could count to three.

"Oh…oh God!" she nearly yelped as his fingers moved over her clitoris, sliding slickly with her moisture. It was like little aphrodisiac firecrackers going off under her skin.

"I have wanted to touch you for weeks," he whispered huskily in her ear. "Taste you…make love to you..."

Hermione sucked in a shuddering breath, a flush of arousal careening through her at his words. So much for sense and caution; but really, it had been rather stupid of her to think that she could participate in behaviors that ramped them both up so thoroughly and then just walk away without any kind of completion. But…

_Is it safe?_

Lucius smiled a Cheshire cat grin. "If I can kiss your mouth…I can also kiss you…" his fingers suddenly dipped lower, between her folds to tease her opening, "here."

Her brain nearly short-circuited. It was the look on his face, the mischievous lust in his eyes, and some devastatingly sexy tone in his voice. All of it overloaded her; she whimpered.

"Is that a yes?" He was sucking on her ear, his fingers ghosting over her clit.

"Yes," she said breathlessly. _Yes yes yes yes!_

He began his descent without another word. For the second time that day, his fingers slid the straps of her dress down, peeling it away from the skin he wanted to devour. It being the second time didn't detract from the sensation when he fastened his lips around her nipple in the slightest. He sucked and then flickered his tongue over the rosy, peaked skin, all the while still tracing feather-light circles around her clitoris. She was already breathing hard, aroused beyond all reason.

He sensed it. He didn't linger, working the dress down her body with his lips in hot pursuit. The sight of his pale crown trailing down triggered the powerful memory of her fantasizing a month ago. It was right after he had trapped her into the Vow. He had dreamed about her, about doing exactly what he was about to do. She had seen it. Felt it. And then she had masturbated herself into a fine orgasmic frenzy, her mind substituting her fingers for his tongue.

It was happening. Her dress was on the floor and he was peeling her knickers off. Lucius Malfoy was about to go down on her. He was kissing her navel and then the spot just above the line of her pubic hair. His hands nudged her thighs apart. Hermione felt delirious.

She gasped as he unexpectedly nuzzled between her legs and inhaled. No man had ever done that to her, but this was Lucius; she knew what smell meant to him. Evidently it pleased him because a low rumble issued from his throat. She had no time to reflect on what a lovely sound it was; in the next moment, his practiced fingers parted her nether lips and he pressed a kiss to the swollen bud it revealed.

His lips were quickly followed by his tongue. It incinerated her; gasps quickly turned to moans under his onslaught. He knew exactly what he was doing. Each stroke of his tongue drew a peal of pleasure out of her. She had never been so sensitive before. She could feel the texture of his tongue, the very slight roughness bestowed by the taste buds, and in combination with its hot wriggling Hermione was speeding towards ecstasy faster than she ever had before.

Just as she thought she would lose it, he eased off. Hermione groaned in both frustration and relief; she didn't want it to be over so quickly, but the desire to come was overwhelming. He teased her, sliding his tongue over the plump lips of her sex, the inside of her thigh. All the while, his warm breath tickled all of her most responsive places. Ooh, and there he was, fearlessly laving the skin beneath her opening – so _that_ was her perineum. Who knew that little patch of skin could be so profusely innervated? She found herself twisting against his grip. Even that was pleasurable; somehow, the feeling of his strong, sure hands on her thighs just spurred her on.

Him, too. He was blowing softly against the source of her moisture. Then her entire world shifted on its axis with the skillful application of what was now her favorite part of his body. His tongue swept around her entrance, tasting, testing, and then pushing shallowly into her. Merlin help her, the man could eat pussy.

He stayed there for some time, gamely plumbing her depths while his nose bumped most agreeably against her clit. She was outright squirming at his treatment. This was every bit as good as she had imagined. In fact, it was better. That was saying something, because her imagination could be very powerful and it certainly had high expectations. You knew, Hermione reflected, that your partner was doing a good job when your eyes were rolling back in your skull and breathing was nearly impossible. That was her current state of affairs.

"Lucius!" she managed to choke out, bucking hard enough to make him lift his head. A lazy smile speared across his face, half of which was anointed with her arousal.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said silkily, as if he were not facedown in her most private of places, "did you need to come?"

_Wicked man!_ She could have slapped him, but settled for taking a handful of his hair and giving it a good yank.

His eyes flashed slightly, yet he chuckled. _You can't begin to know the ways I'll tease you…_

Good God, his words might be enough to do her in. He didn't prolong the sweet agony, though. After taking a firm hold of the place where thigh met hip, his lips covered the feverishly inflamed bud of her clit and he sucked – hard.

"Oh FUCK!" The words exploded out of her in a shout. It was like being struck by lightning. It was almost _too_ much; it bordered on painful. A paradoxical sob clogged her throat. She knew she was trembling. Her toes were curling, digging into the bed.

It was blinding her. Separating her body from her mind's control. The orgasm that was building was thunderous. She could feel it curling in her loins, bunching the muscles into pleasurable contortions. It was like a tiger waiting to spring after its prey.

"Lucius! Yes! Lucius!!" His name was spilling from her lips like a mantra.

_Yes…say my name…_ His mind's voice was a low, rasping growl. _Come for me…_

With ten more seconds of his excruciating alternation of sucking and licking the over stimulated center of her sexual satisfaction, she did. Everything seemed to pause for a precarious second, teetering on the edge of absolute bliss. Then she flew over the side, screaming as she plummeted into a fantastic fit of raw, spasmodic pleasure. It went on and on and on; Hermione felt ready to black out.

When at last it began to recede, her hips were off the bed, her back arched, and her hands thrown up above her head in fists. She was breathing in great, heaving gasps. Lucius climbed up her body, whispering sweet words to her that she couldn't even process. That was how he gently coaxed her into relaxation.

For a few minutes there was nothing but pleased exhaustion. Then she opened her eyes and looked at him. His eyes were drinking in the sight of her, nude and flushed and debauched in his bed. She wanted very much to see him the same way.

Hermione pounced on him. His eyes widened slightly in surprise at her sudden move. Before he could say anything, she kissed his warm, musk-tinged lips. That sold him; his hands propelled her on fully on top of him, straddling his hips, and his eyes slipped shut as his tongue sought hers. She was probably making a neat little puddle on his clothing where her core rested against him. No matter. She kissed his chin and his jaw as she worked on his shirt.

_Damn it buttons are the devil's invention…!_

He chuckled, reaching down to help her. In a few more seconds she had pushed the pesky fabric obstruction away and the lovely planes of his chest were open to her. She wanted to put her lips and hands all over him, but first…an experiment.

She trailed her mouth along his neck. It had felt so good to do it the first time they kissed, to feel his pulse pound along her lips. This time was no exception. There was something inherently erotic in kissing and being kissed on the neck; perhaps because it was such a vulnerable spot, a place that no one would have access to without a certain level of intimacy. However, that wasn't her ultimate goal. It was time to see if Lucius's initial attack on her ear so many weeks ago was a reflection of his own desires.

Oh, yes. That was nothing short of magic. His lips fell open and his blues fluttered under pale lashes. When she applied her tongue, his entire body twitched beneath her. In half a minute she had him breathing very heavily. His hands were trailing up and down her back, his nails biting very lightly into the soft skin.

She had never been like this with a man. She had never wanted to kiss every inch of anyone else. But the need burned in her now; she wanted to stimulate every pale acre of Lucius's skin, from his forehead to the soles of his feet.

_I don't think I can survive that_.

He had heard her thought. She was probably torturing him. He had been aroused for nearly ninety minutes with no relief. Hermione gave him an apologetic little smile. Her exploration could wait. Right now he needed completion. He needed to come as hard as she had; she wouldn't be satisfied with anything else.

With an excited tremor in her hands, she reached for his trousers. He tensed.

"Hermione…"

"You're not a leper," she said. "I can touch you. I want to touch you."

A trace of misery invaded his features. "I want it, too, but I haven't had the chance to speak to Smythe yet." He reached up to smooth his knuckles along her cheek. "The thought of infecting you…I can't…it would kill me."

"You won't." She kissed the back of his hand, fighting the sadness that wanted to rise in her chest.

He gave her a crooked little smile. "After I talk to Smythe, you can touch me all you want."

Hermione felt like crying. "I…"

_I just want to make you feel how you made me feel._

His hands tangled in her hair and drew her down. Lucius kissed her thoroughly. He was so adept at fogging her brain and driving rational thought away… When he pulled back he cupped her jaw, his thumb tracing across her lower lip as his eyes pierced hers, sure and passionate.

"You already have."

* * *

The sentiment warmed her, but still it wasn't enough. Lucius had been denying himself for so long. She wanted him to feel good. She wanted him to forget that he had this stupid disease. He was moving about the room, trying to distract himself from the desire that drew them together like magnets. She was stubbornly lying in his bed, still nude, trying to tempt him back into her arms.

He looked up, leaning against the back of a chair, and gave a rueful and slightly pained smile. "My strategy is not working."

"What strategy is that?"

"Thinking of absolutely horrible things to calm myself down."

"Don't do that," she said, propping up on her elbow. With a settling breath, Hermione prepared to say something and hoped he wouldn't be offended by it. "If you're too worried about me touching you, then why don't you just touch yourself?"

He blinked, a little surprised. "You…would not think that inappropriate or selfish?"

She laughed, exasperated. "Lucius, you just had your face in my vagina and you're asking me about appropriateness? And why would it be selfish?"

His lips twitched, barely containing a smirk. "Well, there isn't anything in it for you."

"There's plenty in it for me. I get to watch a gorgeous man touch himself and know that he's thinking of me while he does it." She rolled out of bed in what she hoped was a seductive way and crossed the room. There was no denying the way his eyes traveled up and down her body, silently feasting. He let her take hold of his still-unbuttoned shirt and drag him back into bed.

To emphasize her point, she undid the button on his trousers and carefully lowered the zipper. He groaned in relief as it eased some of the pressure on his erection. He wasn't kidding when he said his strategy wasn't working.

"At least, you better be thinking of me." She smiled and gave her newly unearthed treasure a gentle squeeze through his much put-upon boxers.

"Ah," he sighed at the touch. "I think I can manage that. You're sure?"

Hermione nodded. "I'm sure." She settled against his side and kissed his ear. "It will be…educational, because I'll be able to see what you like, and practice it on you after Smythe gives us the go-ahead…"

"Mm hm," he murmured, wiggling his hips so that his trousers slouched down. "Go on…"

"And maybe later, you can watch me."

His hand was sliding down his fine abdominals, dipping below the waistband of his boxers. "And then I can practice on you?" he said, his fingers stroking up and down the length that the last bit of clothing obscured. Hermione almost couldn't think as she watched his hand stray lower, to fondle his testicles beneath the fabric.

"You're a tease," she breathed, riveted.

"I didn't hear you complaining."

"That's because my thighs were clamped over your ears."

He laughed, a deeply satisfied chuckle. And more than watching him reacquaint himself with his estranged sexuality, his smile spurred a profound, gratifying, and distinctly quivery feeling inside her. She supposed that that was what people referred to as 'the warm fuzzies.' Merlin help her.

Yes, Merlin help her, because he was squirming out of his clothes as gracefully as he could. In a short minute he was gloriously nude. She had seen him before, but not like this. Not purposefully naked, ready to give and receive pleasure, to ratchet their level of intimacy up to something breathtaking but indefinable.

He pulled her back against his side and a pulse of pleasure shot from his mind to hers at the feeling of skin on skin. She could feel how much he wanted to roll on top of her, to rub every inch of his body along hers. With an expression that was mildly tortured, he reached for the erection that rested like organic steel against his abdomen.

Hermione's breath caught as he grasped the rigid length. Words like 'beautiful' didn't really apply to a man's misguided center of pride. The best thing she could think of to compare to Lucius at full arousal was the sensation of quiet, slightly fearful awe one experienced when in a new and fascinating place. He was definitely fascinating…

This was much hotter than she had initially thought it would be. Watching him treat himself to slow, firm strokes, his eyes closed and his chest rising in gradually quickening breaths, was completely intoxicating. She tried to pay attention to those educational things; how tightly he squeezed, the pace, where he enjoyed the touch most, but she couldn't seem to keep a thought inside her head. She could only watch him, her own arousal building exponentially.

He turned his head. _Kiss me._

Hermione complied, glad to have something to do. His lips were patient and slow, the way his hand was as it worked his erection. Perturbed with the vengeful tide of sexual energy he'd stoked in her, she lifted her chin, pressing her lips more fully against his and letting her tongue stray out to taste him. She mapped the creases of his upper lip, the front of his teeth, and at last the tip of his tongue as it met hers.

If she had been wearing knickers, they would have melted from the subsequent kisses. As it was, she was surprised she didn't have a spontaneous orgasm when he moaned softly into her mouth. He pulled away a second later, breathing heavily. He murmured something.

A lubricating spell. His hand was moving more easily over his thick cock. Hermione had to bite her lip very hard to keep from reaching out to help him. She wanted to make him scream. She wanted to touch and taste and slide down over that turgid length until he shattered and completely lost control.

This wasn't enough. This wasn't wrenching his mind free of its earthly moorings like his treatment had done for her. She couldn't just watch. She had to touch him; the desire was becoming so strong that something wild was pushing against her judgment. How could she…oh! It came to her in a stroke of genius.

Hermione smiled and hoped it didn't look too predatory. With an attempt to calm herself, she retreated into her brain and reached out for him mentally. The connection was instant and shivery, making both of them inhale sharply at the same time. His eyes flew open, struggling to focus on her.

Then she pushed that button, the one she had discovered during their first kiss. That shot of psychic bliss. His entire body jumped and a ragged gasp escaped him. Yes. One step closer to the Lucius she wanted to see, the man twisting among the sheets in ecstasy.

Step two. Hermione let the erotic sight of him spur her mind. She created images of things she wanted to do to him. Of things she was sure he'd like to do to her. She had always had a good imagination, in spite of her logical grounding. Sure of what her visions would do to him, she let them flow past her barriers and into his mind.

The effect was instantaneous. His neck arched back and his free hand fisted in the sheet. She watched him hungrily, gradually escalating the images. The dream-sight of her on her knees sucking his cock enthusiastically had him moaning low in his throat and increasing the speed of his tight-fisted ministrations. She could see a pearly white bead on the tip of his cock; orgasm was not so far away.

She would push him to it. She envisioned every way she wanted to be with him, every position, every place, starting with the bed they were in. There was missionary here, her legs locked around him as he pounded into her, her on top out on the lounge chairs in front of the fountain – and he _really_ liked that idea, for the muscles in his thighs spasmed and his hips rose to his strokes, which were faster and harder than they had been before – against the wall in the loo, just before a morning bath…

What finally did him in was the powerful image of her draped over his desk, the one he wrote on, while he took her from behind. His breath hitched.

"Oh God. Oh yes. Yesssss…!"

He was trembling, his face crunching up. He was going to come. With a few more brutal, practiced strokes, he was lost. He climaxed with a loud, beseeching cry, a sound that made her insides clench with need. So, too, did the look on his face as his seed spurted hotly over his belly and between his still-moving fingers in relentless surges. It was sheer, undiluted rapture: eyes rolled back, brow creased, mouth open in a soundless scream. That was an image she would never forget, along with the sight of his cloudy essence dripping down the back of his hand as he writhed and shuddered through the last seizures of orgasm.

She could not say how long it was before she regained the ability to do anything but stare at him. They were both breathing hard. He seemed unable to move for a moment, just laying there with his hand still loosely clasped around his spent manhood. Then, as if someone had suddenly reactivated his brain, he relinquished his grasp. A slight look of distaste crossed his features as he noticed the stickiness that bathed his hand.

"Feel better?" she asked. Her throat was dry from what she'd just witnessed. She was still humming with need. Damn her mind and its bright ideas.

"Much," he murmured, dazed. "You are…a naughty little witch."

"I heard that's what you liked," she responded playfully.

"Did you?" He smiled slightly, but it reached his eyes in a way that it hadn't in the last few days. She simply stared at him for a few moments. He stared back, clear-eyed and tranquil, and her heart did that disturbing spasm thing again. A devil-may-care expression crossed Lucius's flushed face. "Why don't you give me my wand so I can clean this up, and then I can give you a little relief?" He leaned close to her ear, nipping it. "I know how turned on you are."

Hermione squirmed away and reached for his wand. It didn't feel quite so strange in her hand this time. He cast a quick Scourgify, banishing the evidence of his orgasm, and then decisively leaned into her neck.

"I thought you were hungry," she squeaked under the onslaught of his lips and his hand caressing her breast.

"There are many kinds of hunger," he purred. "Some outweigh others."

God, she wanted him. But this was bordering on perilous.

_Lucius__, I won't be able to control myself if we keep going. I'll make you do things that could be dangerous._

She meant it, too. Thankfully, it took the wind out of his sails. His hot, open-mouthed kisses turned to the gentle tickle of breath on her neck, and his hand slid from her breast down to her ribs.

_You're right. After I see Smythe…_

Wordlessly, they curled around each other. Fifteen minutes of stupefied relaxation followed. Enveloped by him, his smell filling her nose, she felt her lust cool into muted anticipation. His stomach rumbled again and Hermione couldn't resist smoothing her fingers over his abdominals, as if she could comfort the protesting organ beneath. His hand covered hers and brought it up to his lips. Just then, there was a hesitant knock at the door. They exchanged a glance, one that was glad that the knock hadn't come earlier. Lucius pulled the sheet up over their bodies and said,

"Enter."

Jo-Jo poked an apprehensive head into the room. "Er, Healer Smythe sent a package for Master and Miss."

"For both of us?" Lucius asked, a note of curiosity in his voice.

"Yes."

He held out a hand and Jo-Jo levitated a modest-sized box to the bed. After asking the elf to bring them some water, Lucius opened it and pulled out two envelopes.

"There's one for each of us." He held an envelope out to her. Perplexed, Hermione took it and extracted the letter. It was several pages long, but the first one was graced with only two lines:

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_Is it still presumption if it turns out to be right?_

Her mouth fell open. The cheek! So what if Smythe had been right? He didn't have to rub it in her face. And how would he know, anyway? She shook her head, leafing through the other pages. They looked to be a series of protective spells, designed so that she could engage in just about any sexual behavior with Lucius without any worry of disease transmission. The last page made her blush and feel a little bit nauseous at the same time; what kind of people did Smythe think she and Lucius were? She would never do that, but, well, she couldn't fault the healer for being thorough.

"What on earth?" Lucius looked confused.

"What does yours say?" she asked.

He handed it to her.

_Lucius__,_

_Glad to see you are feeling better. Add an Unbreakable charm and a No-slip spell and you're back in action._

"Add an Unbreakable charm to _what_?" he asked.

Hermione frowned. "What else is in the box?"

Lucius reached in and pulled out a smaller box. Hermione had to stifle a giggle.

"Thirty-six lubricated latex condoms?" he read. "What the hell are--"

"I'll tell you after dinner," she replied.

And the whole walk into town, she couldn't keep the smile off her face.


	15. Chapter 15

Author's Note: KNICKER WARNING IS NOW IN EFFECT. Don't blame me if you ruin 'em. ;)

lucas'mom: Eek, sheepskin all the way for you. I actually cover the latex allergy in this chapter so I didn't disregard that. And no shame for being a New Yorker - my father is from Brooklyn and I grew up in central NJ. People don't admit that it's one step up from Siberia up there in NEPA? They're living in a dream world. I never wore boots before I lived up there. A good pair of Tims will give you better traction. The summer coolness is pretty much the only thing I miss about living up there, other than the view mountains and the sky - it's much bluer. I'll confess that I've scoped out Barnes & Noble...if I don't use a pseudonym, my books would be right next to Kurt Vonnegut. Not a bad spot, eh?

dedanaan: I can't comment on your questions, but thank you and I'm glad you're enjoying the story!

brooklynsam3: Thank you!

AcademicDragon: I should hope so! Thanks. :)

Chibi06: I thought people might love last chapter, hehe. Here's some more.

QuirksnQuills: Wow, thank you. As I've said to some other very eloquent reviewers, that one was worthy of the Critiquill! Fortunately, I think the people who disagree with the HIV storyline were mature enough to just not read on. I haven't had any real issues. **I'm really impressed with all my wonderful readers and reviewers for your open-mindedness!** And I'm really glad that I was able to keep things sexy in spite of the intrusion of real life issues. There's more of that on the way. You'll have to let me know if I pull it off the second time around.

Me: Thanks! Compliments like yours are a balm to a writer's soul. :)

Madam Thalia: Thank you. I hope this can tide you over.

MissCreant: Yes, Lucius is going to get a crash course in safe sex. Hopefully some of that good tension can be relieved...

migotka21: I've gotten a few inquiries about the kissing and the oral sex. I did my research before I wrote it. Saliva contains only a negligible amount of virus, if any at all, and the disease can't be transferred that way. So kissing is fine as long as there is no blood - so no biting, nipping, or poor dental hygiene! Hehe. Same goes for the oral sex - as long as both parties are not sporting any broken skin in either locale (and since in this case it was Hermione's non-infected fluids involved), it's safe. I can elaborate and give websites if anyone wants; I really did research this. I knew if I took the plot this way I had to do my homework. Thanks for reading. :)

SlytherinBookworm: Yup, I really think that their emotional connection is important. Physical chemistry isn't enough for these two. I hope this chapter leaves you wanting more, as well.

loveismagic: Thank you! It only gets better.

SlytherinDragoon: Cold showers aren't so bad. You save money on your gas bill...or whatever your hot water heater uses. ;)

fahzzyquill: Thank you! You can say it as many times as you want. ;)

Azrulai: Yes, it'll be interesting to see how Lucius handles this barbaric muggle device. And my apologies, I tend to assume that many of my bizarre references go unremarked upon. In that case, yes, I did come up with the albatross metaphor on my own.

Velvet Storm: I wouldn't mind offering some tips on your sexually charged chapters, hehe. Thanks. Oh, and you're the only one who signed up so you have Lucius all to yourself.

Lady Verity: You might be joining SlytherinDragoon in the cold shower after this chapter. ;)

Blue Willow S.: Thank you. Maybe at the end I'll post my soundtrack listing.

GurloftheNight: Thanks!

littlevampirebaby: So maybe leave a longer review this time? Hehe. Thanks, I'm glad you're enjoying.

uckpa: Yes, any man who is accomplished at that particular task evokes joy, but especially Lucius! He's good at other things, too. ;)

RegrettingCrimson: I hope the steam did not damage the desktop, because more is on the way. And hey, when you change your penname do you lose all your reviews?

MonDieu666: Thank you! Sometimes things other than actual sex are just as fun!

irishblue69: Yes, their tension finally boiled over. I hope you enjoy this chapter, too.

allycat1186: You might not believe it, but it can become more erotic still...

* * *

She felt like she was on a date. A really good date. The kind where you were completely enthralled with the person across from you and conversation flowed easily and everything seemed to be firing on all cylinders. The wine might have had something to do with it. Oh, right, and the post-orgasmic bliss.

It might have been a mistake to let him touch her. Now her eyes were drawn to his lips, sensually aware of what they could do. When his hand moved, to grasp his glass or to push a stray piece of hair behind his ear, she couldn't help but notice the size and shape of it, and its strength. She could _feel_ his presence acutely, as if his aura somehow overlapped hers.

A little thrill shot through her each time he let loose the reigns of his smile. He really did have a great smile when it was genuine. It smoothed years from his face, not that they showed all that much; he was going to be one of those men that only got better with age. For the first time she wondered what he had looked like in his twenties. He must have been so beautiful it hurt.

He was _still_ that beautiful. It was continually surprising to her when she looked up through the three courses and through the many turns of conversation. She had experienced something similar with Harry, once. When they were in that tent in the forest, alone together, she had caught a glance of him changing his shirt, going about his routine without knowing he was being watched. It hit her quite powerfully that he was a man. She had always seen the beauty in his spirit and his personality, but it had never truly dawned on her that he was physically beautiful, too.

It was happening in an odd sort of reverse with Lucius. She had always known that he was attractive. He made sure everybody knew it because he always looked devastatingly good wherever he went. It was part of the terror of him; it was hard to reconcile someone so good-looking with the political and philosophical ugliness he had once embodied. Villains were supposed to be twisted on the outside, too, like Voldemort had become. Not Lucius. Back in those days, if one didn't know better it would be easy to mistake him for just another elitist with a penchant for sneering and racism.

Hermione had seen beyond that cool shield, though, to the parts of him that were raw and atrophied but slowly reawakening. She saw the beauty of what he _could_ be, and in combination with that, his physical charisma went from being intimidating to engaging. Hell, he was downright charming. And even more charming was the fact that she knew it wasn't for some end; he wasn't trying to get anything from her. It was just…him.

Well, perhaps he _was_ trying to get in her knickers, but she was more than amenable to that. If she was honest with herself, she wanted to get back into his trousers more than she cared to admit. There had been tension between them from the beginning. It had finally boiled over earlier, but instead of quelling their chemistry it only made it more explosive. It figured.

"No," Lucius was saying, absently toying with his empty wine glass, "the ending was awful. There is tragedy and then there is cruelty."

"It wasn't cruel," she chuckled. She was pleasantly surprised that Hemingway riled him up, though he certainly wasn't alone in his literary agitation. "It was meaningful."

"Yes, if the meaning you wanted to take was that all your effort was for nothing and that love and life are insignificant in the grand scale of things," he snorted. "The whole novel you hope for them, allow yourself to slip out of your cynicism, and then…" he flicked his fingers against the glass, making a low pinging noise, "Frederic is alone again, but so much worse than before."

"It's no different than any other tragedy," she shrugged. Truthfully, she agreed with him, but she was enjoying playing the devil's advocate. Lord knew it had been far too long since she'd had anyone to talk to about books. "It was partially autobiographical. Hemingway was an ambulance driver during the war. Only, in real life the nurse he fell in love with left him for another man."

"That at least makes his motivations clearer," Lucius frowned. "In other tragedies there is a sense of poeticism, of romanticism in death. These two were just regular people, not tragic heroes. The poem and romance was in their attempt at love in the backdrop of war."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Did you want a happy ending?" she asked. _You know as well as I that there isn't always a happy ending._ She was thinking of Teddy, little Teddy Lupin; his situation was a bit too close to the book for her immediate comfort. That was why she had subconsciously left it on the bottom of the stack. Having read it before, she knew how hard it would hit her this time around.

"I suppose I am that maudlin," he remarked quietly.

"Was it worth reading in spite of the ending?" she asked.

"Yes," he admitted. "It was different." He cocked his head slightly. "Are all his books like that?"

"No," Hermione smiled, "but he is certainly one of the more reviled authors out there."

"Reviled, but still good enough that people read what he has to offer." Lucius's lips tugged upwards; the irony wasn't lost on him.

"He points out the difficult things." She searched the index of her memory for the words from the Critiquill's reviews. "'He almost forces you to think on topics most of us would rather leave alone, for if you want to know the rest of his story you must face the uncomfortable truths and lies'."

Lucius's eyebrows rose slightly. God, she might love him already, because he _got_ her. He knew exactly what she was talking about. The conversation had gone from Hemingway to Malfoy in a few double entendres.

"I see now how you always did better than Draco in school," he commented. "You have a photographic memory."

Hermione raised her shoulders. "Sometimes."

Lucius leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. "Well, I don't plan on killing all the characters at the end of _my_ next book."

"And thank goodness for that," she murmured, rearranging her napkin. She wasn't going to mention that the man she was comparing him to had committed suicide. That was a likeness she didn't want them to share.

He surveyed his plate with a critical eye. "I think that's the most I've eaten in months." He still hadn't managed to finish all of the pasta, but it was a good deal more than the last time she'd seen him eat, not including that afternoon's toast.

_Is it the medications that ruin your appetite?_

He shrugged, even though she hadn't spoken out loud. _The medications, stress, life in general…I don't really know which is the culprit, if it is just one._

Hermione frowned slightly and was about to respond when a loud voice cut between them.

"Luciano! Miss Granger! It is such a pleasure to see you again!"

They both turned. It was Paolo, heading toward them with a grin on his face. There was a woman just behind him; Hermione assumed she was his wife. When they decided to sit outside, Lucius had half-heartedly joked that he hoped they wouldn't see anyone they knew, least of all the old woman from the shop. From that she had deduced that Lucius understood a little more Italian than he let on.

Before she knew what was happening, Paolo was kissing her on both cheeks and so was his wife. Lucius got a similar treatment and managed to execute it with a little more grace than she did.

"This is my wife, Elisabetta. Darling, this is Luciano and Miss…"

"Hermione," she supplied.

"And Miss Hermione Granger," Paolo finished.

"Hermione is a lovely name," Elisabetta said, in a slightly thicker accent than her husband.

"Thank you," Hermione smiled at the pretty woman.

"Elisa, Luciano is my English friend I told you about. Remember, from when I was young?"

"Oh yes! From the villa, up on the hill!" She beamed. "I am so pleased to meet you."

"The pleasure is ours," Lucius said smoothly. "Have you come for dinner?"

"Oh, no," Paolo chuckled. "Dessert. You must try the citrus cheesecake, it is delicious. A man could die happy if that was his last meal."

"Paolo, you are so dramatic," Elisabetta said, prodding him in the side.

"I am not, darling, that is what _I _want when I am on my deathbed." Paolo flagged down one of the waiters and spoke in rapid Italian. "There, they are bringing some to you, on my bill."

"That's really not necessary," Lucius said amiably. "We are quite full."

Hermione gave him a look. He was speaking for himself; personally, citrus cheesecake sounded great to her. Ah well; if he couldn't stomach it, she would eat his piece, too. That was one perk of him having the appetite of a weight-conscious teenaged girl.

Paolo waved a hand, as if to say 'nonsense'. Then he turned to his wife and murmured something in her ear. She grinned and nodded.

"Luciano, Hermione, we are having party Saturday evening. Our oldest is moving to Roma for University, can you believe it? Do you remember Domenico? He used to play with us that summer. He's going to be there, I'm sure he would love to see you. That reminds me of the sunflower fields; did you see the blight that hit them? Goodness, it was overnight, Abramo has no idea what it is, he's bringing samples to a specialist in Firenze, though Fredo thinks it was a lightning strike--"

"Paolo, dear, you are babbling," Elisabetta said gently.

"Oh. Right. The party. We would be honored if you and Miss Hermione could attend. Our house is at the end of the Briatore road. We will see you there on Saturday at 16:00, yes?"

"I…" Lucius had no sooner opened his mouth, no doubt to offer a polite refusal, when the server arrived with the cheesecake.

"Oh, it looks delicious! Until the weekend, my friends," Paolo said, grabbing his wife's hand and leading her away. In their wake, the server set the dessert on the table, nodded politely, and took his leave. Hermione and Lucius could only blink at one another.

"I see what you meant when you said he talks a lot," Hermione said at last.

Lucius shook his head in wonderment. "We were just skillfully railroaded into attending the party."

Hermione picked up her fork and went for the cheesecake. "At least he included a decent bribe." _How very Slytherin of him._

_Slytherins__ do not have to bribe people to attend parties. Their reputation precedes them._

She smirked at his smug reply, popping the bite of cheesecake between her lips. The taste gave her pause; it was heavenly, sweet and tangy and flavored with those same oranges that she'd eaten on the truck ride to Assisi.

"Eat some," she said, gesturing down at the sizable chunk of cake.

He shook his head. "I meant what I said, I'm very much at my limit."

"Just one bite?"

Lucius cast an annoyed look at her. "Do not cajole me like I'm a three year old."

She got a sudden absurd image in her head of Lucius trying to feed a three year old Draco (like anyone other than a house elf or a nanny had done that!). Hermione giggled to herself.

_For your information, I did take care of my own son. Just because I have money doesn't mean I was the type to hand my child off to the nearest matron._ His tone was a bit piqued. _In fact, that was when I discovered a real fondness for tying my hair back. It only takes one well-aimed handful of Bolognese sauce._

Hermione couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing. The mental picture was just too funny. _Oh,_ she responded, _so it wasn't entirely your influence that made Draco such a pain in the arse._

Lucius's lips pursed. _He has a mother, too. I refuse to take all the blame._

_I know._ She ate another bite of the cheesecake. It was pretty damned tasty; Paolo was right on this. They sat in silence, Lucius contemplating her, Hermione firmly entrenched in devouring the confection in the middle of the table. When she had whittled it down to only a few more bites, he at last picked up his fork and speared a small bit of it.

"That is good," he allowed quietly.

Hermione just smiled. All she could think about was how his lips would taste like oranges later when she kissed him.

* * *

He was quiet on the walk back. Hermione had learned her lesson earlier in their strange little vacation and had her wand lit, though the quarter moon lent a bit more light to the path. He still didn't seem to need any extra light to see. Perhaps he just had better night vision than she did.

She walked a little further before she realized he wasn't with her. Turning, she saw that he had stopped along the path and was staring into the field of sunflowers. Hermione cautiously backtracked to stand by his side.

"I did this, didn't I?" he murmured, lifting his chin to indicate the withered section of the field. "The blight Paolo was talking about was me."

Unsure what to say, she just nodded. She prayed that his mood wouldn't swing, snapping the contentment they had shared for the last few hours. He reached out and took hold of her wrist, not painfully but not gently, either.

"You lied to me."

A small flare of panic rose in her chest. "No, Lucius, I wouldn't--"

"I asked you if I hurt you and you lied."

Hermione's eyes widened. This wasn't what she expected. "It was an accident," she recovered, stepping closer to him. "You weren't in control."

"Is that supposed to excuse it?"

"Yes," she said bluntly.

He squeezed his eyes shut in a moment of frustration. "You are so naïve."

Hermione hated that word. It had been applied to her more times by more stupid people than she could count. She was many things, but she was _not_ naïve. Not anymore. Not since fourth year, when Cedric Diggory died.

"I prefer 'selectively foolish'," she retorted smartly.

"I am not joking, witch," he growled.

"Neither am I. It wasn't intentional. In fact, I'm pretty sure you were trying to push me away, to save me. I refuse to hold that against you."

His free hand came up to grasp her other wrist. It didn't escape her that he held on to them exactly as he had, kneeling in that field on the edge of madness. He remembered everything.

She stood there with him in silence lacking the slightest idea what to say. He seemed to be fighting some kind of internal battle, one that was tightly contained within his shields, giving her no inkling of what he was thinking. At last, after interminable minutes ticked by, he lifted one wrist to his lips. He placed a kiss against the soft, ticklish skin of her forearm before repeating the treatment on the other wrist.

Then, dropping both arms, he stepped into her space and kissed her. It was gentle, sensual, just an open-mouthed brush of lips that sent a flurry of pleasant tingles coursing through her entire body. When she flicked her tongue out, seeking, and met his, she nearly turned to liquid.

He did taste like oranges. Oranges and sweet cream. The certainty descended on her, causing her to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him harder. This was not in vain. No matter what happened tonight or tomorrow or in six months, this was not in vain. Lucius was no Hemingway and this attraction was no disillusioned semi-autobiography waiting to happen.

She made a little noise of surprise when Lucius's hands cupped her buttocks and lifted her. Instinctively she wrapped her legs around his slim hips.

"I would take you right here," he said hotly in her ear.

"I know," she gasped out. She could feel his promise; it was abundantly clear against the parts of her body wrapped so closely to him.

"Then take me home," he whispered roughly, lips still against the curved shell of her ear. "Educate me."

A small whimper passed her lips as she fumbled for her wand. His was currently trapped beneath her thigh in his pocket. That was why he'd asked her to apparate them back to the villa. She was more than happy to do so.

* * *

Somehow she did it without splinching them both, though Merlin knew she was probably much too distracted for side-along apparition. Lucius had a way of clouding her mind most agreeably. He was kissing her even as he carried her back to his room.

Jo-Jo had fastidiously remade the bed in their absence. The poor elf was going to have her work cut out for her if Lucius's libido was making a thunderous comeback. Lucius deposited her on the cool, fresh sheets and summoned the box Smythe had sent. Everything had been tossed back in there before they left for dinner.

It could have been terrifically awkward. However, Lucius didn't seem to have an awkward bone in his body when he climbed onto the bed and settled just behind her, kissing her neck down to the vertebra that protruded between the top of her shoulders.

"Your spells," he murmured, handing her the papers, his arm curling around her torso. "Though I'm sure you already have them memorized."

"I didn't read through them very thoroughly, I only glanced at them."

"Mm," was the response, and his lips resumed a feathery trail down her spine. "Take as much time as you need." For the second time, he was coaxing the straps of her dress down her shoulders. He was content with peppering kisses across her back and shoulders for a few minutes. She tried to ignore his hand a moment later as it slid into the retreating bodice of the dress and cupped her breast.

"Lucius, it's hard to concentrate when you're--"

With his other hand, he pulled the paper away. "Tell me what it says."

She exhaled. "That page…has a healing spell for all superficial wounds, on the entire body. _Reparis__ Dermis. _Preventing the need for gloves or barriers when…touching…" As she spoke, a slow warmth was overtaking her. Leave it to him to find a way to make this foreplay.

"And the next one?" His fingers gave a little tweak at her nipple and she drew in a harsh breath.

"A…a variation of the last one. _Reparis__ Oris._ For…healing any wound or sore in the mouth."

"Next?" She heard the rustle of papers; he was checking what she was saying while he worried her nipple between his fingers.

"_P…Protego Oris_ to…to facilitate oral sex and…" Sweet Merlin, his hand was trailing away from her breast, rubbing lightly between her thighs.

"And?" he purred.

"And…" her lips twitched. Damn him, he was right; she did remember the pages already, word for word. "And 'allow for oral intercourse and ejaculation if desired'."

Lucius chuckled. "Smythe is rather clinical in his lewdness, isn't he?"

"Wait until you see the last page," she responded, struggling to keep her voice level as the light strokes of his hand over her knickers incinerated her. Parchment rustled.

"Oh. There is nothing clinical about that," Lucius said. She could hear the grimace in his voice. "I may have to rethink my opinion of him."

"I'm sure he was just being thorough, trying to cover all the possibilities," she smiled, while simultaneously wondering if it was possible to have an orgasm just from the horrible teasing delicacy of his touch.

"Well, Hermione, I can assure you that I have no trace of affinity for water sports, and I sincerely hope you feel the same."

She laughed, leaning back into his shoulder. "You have nothing to worry about."

"Good." His tongue flickered out to swipe briefly at her pulse. "Now, these mysterious condoms…"

Her smile widened. "Give me the box." A moment later he placed it in her hand and she carefully opened it. "Let's pray you're not allergic to latex."

"What?"

"Not a pleasant thing to find out when it's on your bits…"

"You are speaking nonsense."

"Am not," she said, twisting around in his grip to face him. He looked put out at the loss of contact, but waited patiently. Hermione extracted one of the package's treasures and held it up. Lucius appraised the square bit of wrapping. She quashed her feeling of ridiculousness and the desire to laugh at his very serious expression.

"All right. Don't interrupt me when I'm talking about this, no matter how much you want to," she warned. He raised an eyebrow but nodded. Hermione went on, assured of his silence. "A condom is a Muggle contraceptive and protective device." Lucius nodded once, curtly, and she could tell that he was biting his lip to stay quiet. Wondering what on earth could top this for sheer strangeness, she carefully opened the one she held. "It's…basically a sheath for," she struggled for Smythe's clinical wording, "your penis." Damn him, his eyes had gone from curious to amused. She plowed on, determined not to be embarrassed. "It's made of latex, which is a kind of thin rubber. Some people have an allergy to it, like I said, but it's not that common and I remember now that I've seen Smythe wear latex gloves around you. Anyhow…it…the condom, that is…well, the male puts it on while erect and it provides a barrier for the…"

"I understand," he said, a small smile lifting his lips. "Primitive, but effective."

She nodded, glad she didn't have to go on. He was taking this well. He held out his hand and she placed the unwrapped condom in his palm. Lucius examined it intently for a moment, unrolling it in the process.

"The lubricant is included…smart," he commented. He looked up at her. "Do they come in sizes?"

A smile broke out across her face. "I was waiting for that."

"It's a serious question," he protested. "You of all people should appreciate curiosity."

"No, they don't really come in sizes. There are bigger ones out there for the freakishly large among us…" She gave him an indulgent look. "I'm not insulting your attributes, Lucius, but I think these should work."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "I was _not_ inferring that I required these 'freakishly large' devices, though I'm certain you wouldn't mind if I did."

"I know." She leaned over to kiss him with a smile playing over her lips. He kissed back grudgingly. She knew men had fragile egos when it came to their endowment, but it was hard to resist giving in to the humor of the situation, even if it was at his expense.

"So," Lucius said, apparently satisfied with her wordless apology, "Smythe says that if I apply an Unbreakable Charm and a No-Slip Spell that there should be no possibility of malfunction?"

"That's what the doctor ordered."

"It would be prudent to cast the Unbreakable Charm before application and the No-Slip after…" he muttered to himself.

Hermione hadn't even thought of that. Bless his forethought; it might have been rather frustrating, if comical, for him to discover that he couldn't get the damn thing _on_ with the No-Slip spell in place. And he'd have to remember to end the spell before taking it off. Goodness, all of this sure made sex a lot more complicated.

"Maybe we should make a flow chart," she cracked.

"Now you've done it," he purred, quickly pinning her onto her back. "I require no diagram, my lady."

She giggled. "I know, I'm just saying it's a lot of extra steps that we aren't used to."

"Not so many." He kissed her collarbone. "You do your spells." His lips trailed down the space between her breasts. "I do mine." He nuzzled the softness of her breast before his tongue scraped across the taut nipple. "And then it is the same as always."

The sweet flush of arousal that had been temporarily forgotten during her explanation returned full force. How did he do that? Oh, she didn't care. That feeling of his aura overlapping hers continued; she could feel his fingers before they touched her skin, an awareness of proximity that tickled her nerve endings.

"Mmm," she hummed, enjoying the attention he was bestowing upon her nipples, "I think we should practice."

"Oh yes," he said, his voice slightly muffled by her breasts, "I quite agree."

* * *

So she had done her spells. He had surprised her by duplicating them on himself, reasoning that it couldn't hurt for them both to use Smythe's precautions. It was one of many curiously considerate things he'd done lately. It only made her all the more attracted to him.

So did watching him use every spell short of Fiendfyre on the condom to make sure the Unbreakable Charm worked. She did appreciate that he was so concerned about her safety. However, when he progressed to Unforgivables, she succumbed to laughter.

"What?" he demanded.

"Lucius, unless your penis does some very interesting and frightening things that I'm not aware of, I think that's enough!"

He had thankfully seen the humor of the situation and given up. The weathered condom (which, true to the spell had not broken) was unceremoniously tossed off the bed. He launched himself at her and proceeded to kiss her senseless.

Now she was peeling his clothes off, feeling a bit insatiable at the sight of his skin. She had wanted to touch all of it earlier and now she really could. She could tell that he wasn't used to having a woman impatiently disrobe him, but he said nothing. He was probably thinking about how there were spells for that.

Hermione preferred this approach for the minute or two of seduction that it offered. It was so much sexier to see his skin revealed little by little than to just have it all in one magic-induced rush. A slow divestment assured that she would be able to take it all in and ramp up her own arousal with the anticipation. That was exactly what was happening as she undid the last button on his shirt, slid her hands beneath it, and pushed it aside.

Heavy warmth burgeoned in her core. Again she thought that he was too thin, but even too thin he was more attractive than most. His chest was toned and his abdominals were defined in even, subtle ridges of muscle. There were too many lovely things to look at; the etched lines of his abdomen with its tell-tale swatch of blond, cut off by the waist of his trousers, the round perfection of his belly button (innie), the little disks of his nipples…

But she could touch him now. She ran her hands up his stomach, over his pectorals, reveling in the way he inhaled sharply at the brush of her palms against his nipples. Then she really couldn't stop herself; she pulled the shirt the rest of the way off him and cast it aside. She lifted his arm, the left one, needing to see it.

The Dark Mark was gone. There was nothing on his milky flesh to suggest that it had ever been there.

"He took it with him, thank Merlin," Lucius murmured, knowing exactly why she was contemplating his arm so fiercely.

_Better it than you._ She lowered her lips to his forearm, the way he had done to her next to the sunflowers. The hitch of his breath was unmistakable.

_I've told you before that you're too forgiving._

_And I've told you that you are so much better than whatever mark you used to wear._

He said no more, but she could feel the shift in him, from playful to…something she couldn't name. He was subdued as she went to work on his trousers, his pale eyes hooded with a distant emotion. There was nothing subdued about his erection, and though he lifted his hips and was in all ways obliging of her, her momentum slowed. She looked at him questioningly.

His arms wrapped around her and he tugged her down against his chest. She waited, content to enjoy the warm press of his skin and the tickle of his hands as they roamed over her back.

_I'm a mixed up man._

She listened to his heart beneath her ear, sure that he wasn't finished.

_Very few people have praised me in my life about things that weren't superficial…sometimes there was a professor in school, or a family friend…my ex-wife from time to time…but the most enthusiastic bestower of praise was…_

_Him_, she finished, knowing how much loathing crept into the word.

_Yes. Him._ The pressure of his fingers increased slightly against her back. _It was like a drug. The same highs and lows. I don't trust praise anymore. I never should have in the first place. It was like poison. I know that you're saying things because you believe them, because you genuinely feel them, but it is difficult for me to break out of a learned response._

She kissed his chest. _Would you rather I insulted you?_

_Yes. Because then I would know you were speaking truthfully, instead of wondering if I should take your praise at face value or look for a hidden agenda. The kinder you are to me, the more I wonder what you are trying to get out of me._

_I don't do hidden agendas, Lucius._

"Are you certain?" he asked. Hermione considered.

"Well, I guess that everyone has a hidden agenda because we wouldn't do anything without some kind of motivation. But I promise you, Lucius, that my only hidden agenda right now is to get you naked and remedy your abstinence."

"And what's your hidden agenda for that?"

She rested her forearms on her chest and propped her chin against them, looking into his eyes. "Greed and lust."

His lips curled into a faint smile. "On the list of vices, those are two of my favorites."

"I'm not surprised," she replied with an answering smile. "But you have to understand that my greed isn't for what you have, Lucius. I don't need your power or your money – and that reminds me, _please_ remove that money charm on my purse, I'm going to get mugged because your damned Euros are always exploding out of it!"

"Something tells me you would find a way out of being accosted by a muggle thief," he chuckled.

"That isn't the point. Anyway, like I was saying…my greed isn't for what you have, it's for what you are. What you can be."

"Slim rewards there," he snorted.

She gave him a slight glare. "Would you like me to start agreeing with you?"

"It's in your best interest," he said, with a sardonic quirk of his brow.

"Fine." She sat up, unreasonably riled, and crossed her arms over her breasts. "Lucius Malfoy, you are an obstinate, sarcastic, self-absorbed, intolerant, small-minded, inbred, entitled, immature man with poor taste in friends and causes."

His eyes glinted. "I do believe you meant that."

"I did," she replied, her nose in the air. At least it was for a brief second before he turned her rapidly onto her back.

"I shall not endeavor to prove you wrong, but I will most certainly punish you, brazen witch," he growled, his hand sliding between her legs into the warm cusp of her wetness.

"And you're misogynistic, overbearing, and a complete snob," she said around a moan.

"If I was misogynistic I wouldn't bother touching you like this," he retorted as his fingers circled her clit purposefully.

"Oh!" she gasped at the sensation. "Fine, then you're just an overbearing snob!"

"Such sweet words from such a _sweet_ witch," he said between his teeth, making it clear that he didn't think she was sweet at all.

"Right and you're…oh…Merlin, right there!" Her body jolted as he found a particularly pleasurable rhythm against her overtaxed bundle of nerves. "You're…" she almost couldn't form a sentence against the rising tide, "you're such a fine example of kindness, you…argumentative…bully!"

"You don't seem to mind my bullying right now, Hermione." Again, that silken tone of smug condescension. She wondered it if was a reflex. And maybe the effect it was having on her nether regions was a reflex, too, though one she didn't want to admit to possessing.

"In fact," he said, smoothly sliding a finger inside her, "I daresay you want some more of my detestable behavior." He moved his two implements of torture in a knowledgeable tandem, his thumb over her clit and his finger pressing up against the front wall of her passage.

"Ahh! Fuck your behavior, Lucius, I want your--"

He slammed his lips over hers, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and engaging hers. She fought him valiantly, moaning as his hand's movements increased in both pace and pressure. Hermione had to squeeze her eyes shut and try not to scream into his mouth. She was so close to orgasm _already_, it almost wasn't fair.

He rose for air, looking down at her wickedly. "Oh, but if I'm so insufferable to you…"

She felt his hand begin to move away. That was absolutely not allowed to happen. She grabbed two handfuls of his hair, close to his scalp, and tugged him close. "Don't even think about it, Malfoy, or else I'll have to add 'quitter' to my list of unflattering adjectives! And 'bald', once I'm done tearing out all your precious hair!"

A shudder went through his body. She had a feeling it wasn't one of fear or repulsion. He genuinely _liked_ this. He wasn't kidding when he said he was mixed up. Praise made him suspicious and uncertain and flat-out scorn made him insufferably confident and hornier than a schoolboy. What was she getting into?

Oh. Oh sweet Merlin, she was getting into the most explosively sexual relationship of her life! His hand was moving again, and he'd added another finger. He was merciless. Soon she was the one shuddering, her thighs quivering as he stroked her ever closer to her pinnacle.

His breath was quick against her neck. "Come, my little shrew," he rasped. "Or will you refuse just to spite me?"

She couldn't refuse if she tried. Her orgasm ambushed her, suddenly clenching around his invading fingers and forcing a surprised cry out of her. That cry was followed by more exhortations to God and Merlin and Lucius as the reverberations spread through her like shockwaves.

When she returned from her rather ecstatic mental and physical vacation, Lucius was shedding his boxers and socks. Then she was the one with the most clothing on, for she still had one strappy sandal clinging to her left foot. Lucius noticed it with a smirk. He pulled it the rest of the way off and tossed it off the bed. In the time it took for the shoe to leave his hand and then thud onto the floor, he was back over her.

This was what he'd wanted to do earlier, press his body against hers and test its contours. They fit together nicely even though she was so much shorter. The heat and thick, promising steel of his erection branded against her abdomen as he flexed his hips.

"Any more choice words for me?"

"You're bizarre."

"You know," he said into her neck, "if you had just admitted that you hated me, we probably would have gotten to this point much sooner."

"I don't hate you!" she protested, wrapping her arms around his torso.

"I'm not so sure. You found those…what did you call them? Oh, yes, those 'unflattering adjectives' quite easily just now. My guess is you've been saving them up, waiting for an opportunity to use them on me."

Hermione considered. The truth was that she couldn't refute that. Over time, her list of choice words for him had grown longer and longer. Many of them had come tumbling out, given permission.

"I don't hate you…now," she said softly. "I wouldn't be here if I did. I meant all the nice things I've said, too."

"I know."

She looked up at him, at last certain that he wasn't upset. "Then you won't be looking for hidden agendas anymore?"

"I'll always be looking for hidden agendas. It's my nature. But now…" he shifted, resting one thigh between hers, "now I know what your eyes look like when you're telling the truth. You meant all the insults…but you were also truthful in your praise."

She didn't know what to say at first. Then her mind slowly caught up. "Those were…insults for another man. One who looks an awful lot like you, and talks like you, and is in all ways just like you, except…" she ran her fingers along the inside of his left arm, that wonderful piece of blank canvas, "he couldn't see past a bit of ink and spellwork."

"Hermione," he said patiently, "you're allowed to insult me. Sometimes I deserve it. Just keep in mind that I may insult you back, among other consequences…"

"Is the truth that much of a turn-on?" she asked, smiling to herself.

"Yes," he replied. "God, yes. I can't really explain it. Well, I could, but it would take much too long and it's probably a bit twisted for your tastes."

"No need." She could understand some of it. To be a Slytherin was to live in a pit of deception and intrigue at all times. Among all that, a ray of honesty might seem like the most beautiful thing in existence. Foolish yet beautiful, and reckless in a way that people like Lucius could hardly fathom, but often envied. She could see how that might be a turn-on. When someone told you the truth, even if it was critical, it meant that they cared enough not to lie. It only went one way, though; he certainly hadn't been raring to go a few nights before when she stubbornly wrung the truth out of him. "Are you comfortable up there?" she prompted, starting to feel his weight. Diminished as it was, he was still quite a bit heavier than her.

Lucius kissed her gently and then smiled against her lips. _I suppose I should don my apparatus._

Hermione laughed. His way with words did occasionally extend to comedy, it seemed. He sat up and reached for the box. She never would have thought he'd be so amenable to using a muggle device for protection; honestly, she'd expected resistance. The fact that Smythe included spells to reinforce the method probably helped. Above all else a wizard like Lucius would trust magic. The fight might have come if he was expected to use the condom with no magical assurance that it would work.

She heard him cast the Unbreakable Charm. A surge of shyness hit her for no real reason. It was probably sympathy embarrassment on his behalf. She kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling, not wanting to pressure him

_Are you watching? I don't want to bollocks this up._

Hermione shifted her gaze to look at him, surprised that he _wanted_ her scrutiny. Did he think she was some sort of condom expert? Well, she had used them before, but she wasn't a sex maniac. The look in his eyes assured her that that wasn't anything he was trying to express.

_You're allowed to bollocks it up a few times. Condoms are a dime a dozen. _She smiled reassuringly.

_Well, I don't want to waste a dozen in the attempt. _He breathed and took himself in hand. She imagined the look on his face was the same as when he was trying to solve a very difficult problem. A swell of affection ballooned in her chest.

"Don't forget to leave a little room at the tip for…"

He nodded. Then, with a few quick movements, the looming task was done. He looked down at himself critically, then up to Hermione.

"Well?"

She bit her lips. He was still wearing that very serious expression. She sat up and crawled to where he knelt, his now sheathed manhood mocking gravity as it proudly jutted from his hips. With a small grin, she wrapped her hand around him. He twitched and sucked in a breath.

Rising up on her knees to kiss him briefly, Hermione made sure to thoroughly grope and stroke him under the guise of checking his work. She had ached to touch him like this. He was hard as a stone in her hand, pulsing with arousal.

"Merlin," he said under his breath, "if it isn't right I think I'll die."

"It seems that you're a natural," she said with a brilliant smile. "It's perfect."

"Tormenter," he accused, leaning forward, hunting her until she fell back onto her elbows. "Beautiful, beautiful tormenter…"

As he kissed her neck, their bodies somehow moved together, Hermione straightening and parting her legs and Lucius settling between them. He cast the No-Slip spell, his lips brushing hers as he did so. His breath was that familiar tremulous request as his hand stroked down her side and over her hip.

"I will…I will try to retain my manners," he said softly.

Merlin, why wouldn't that fluttering sensation in her chest stop? She reached up to tuck a piece of his lustrous blond hair behind his ear and then cupped his cheeks. His eyes were both kinds of anxious.

"It's sex, Lucius, not a formal banquet. Now hurry up before I soak your bed through."

"Charming," he intoned, but he was smiling. His fingers brushed over her folds, as if to test her threat. Then he eased forward, hesitating only a moment before pressing slowly inside her.

Hermione controlled a breath that wanted to turn into a gasp. That felt incredible, and he wasn't even all the way in yet. She must have been making a strange face, for his voice sounded in her head, concerned.

_Am I hurting you?_

"No. It feels good." She wrapped her arms around him, cupping his buttocks in encouragement. The lovely muscles tensed and then she could feel his thighs against the backs of hers, and the warm weight of his balls. He was buried inside her to the hilt. Hermione felt stretched but not uncomfortable in the slightest. Lucius, for his part, appeared to be experiencing rapture.

"Too right it does," he whispered, his eyes closed. "I'm going to need a minute."

She watched as he took a few deep breaths, gathering his willpower. It was quite admirable, actually; since the loss of her virginity, there had never been a time when she went more than a couple of months without sex. She couldn't imagine three years. She wouldn't have had the same control if it had been that long.

She knew he was ready when the look of concentration faded from his face and he leaned down to capture her lips. As he kissed her, his tongue lightly teasing hers, his hips began their play back and forth. His thrusts were shallow and unhurried at first, just a few inches of movement, never withdrawing from her all the way. The subtle friction stoked the embers in her womb, elevating her arousal to a slow burn.

His lips trailed down her neck, along with the slight roughness of his chin. She felt the tickly grate in the tightness of her nipples. They ached to be touched. Perhaps reading her mind, perhaps not, he took a bud between his lips and sucked. The sensation went straight to her groin, where he was rubbing her so carefully with each slide of his cock. Hermione moaned and stroked a hand over his hair.

Every part of her had known that he would be an amazing lover, but experiencing it was different. As he rocked steadily against her, he touched and kissed and tasted, exploring spots that others had never bothered to look for. He found one right where her collarbone met her sternum. Hearing her agreement, he flicked his tongue over that little erogenous zone until her back curved up toward him, the crown of her head pushing back into the mattress.

His eyes drank her in, pools of simmering blue. He was mirroring her vices. There was greed for her reactions in his gaze; a moan, a sigh, an epithet, he wanted them all. Lust went without saying. They were drowning in it.

And what a pleasurable asphyxiation. He was moving faster now, pulling out more completely before he thrust back into her tight sheath. His face, swaying over hers, was a joy to look at. Lucius couldn't be so tightly controlled like this. Emotions flashed across his face, little tics of pleasure and pain and everything in between. She was enthralled by the play of it all on his handsome canvas.

With his lower lip between his teeth, he leaned closer, resting on his elbows. His hair tickled her breasts as he kissed her sternum. He was increasing his pace gradually. His patience was almost too much to bear. Hermione wrapped her legs around him, changing the angle. It allowed him to penetrate deeper and they both let out sounds of pleasure at the exact same time.

"Are you trying to destroy my control, witch?" he demanded, his hand sliding down to grip her hip tightly.

"Yes," she gasped. "Control is overrated."

"That…is what those who…don't have it…say," he stated, punctuating each phrase with a more forceful piston of his hips. With the next thrust, he found that spot he'd plumbed earlier with his fingers.

"Oh God!" she cried, and by the time it tumbled from her lips he'd done it again. And again. It felt so different than before. She was so full that the friction against that spot expanded outwards, cascading around his invasion. It felt so good she could scarcely breathe.

She knew it felt good to him. He was moving faster, losing his control in spite of his one-sentence lecture on maintaining it. He relinquished his firm grip on her hip only to clamp his arms tightly around her knees, preventing her from unlocking the circle of her legs. It held her in place, negating her body's ability to absorb his thrusts. His mouth fell open as the sound of their lovemaking went from the gentle creak of bedsprings to the pronounced clash of skin coming together.

Each of his thrusts became an impact, hard and jarring against her, setting off little eruptions of pleasure. His eyes were on her breasts as they swayed and then branding into her own wild gaze. She saw something in his hot glower, something she hadn't seen in a while. It was a claim. A fierce, possessive, 'yes, this is what's happening and anyone who opposes it is beneath my concern' kind of claim, the one that had always existed in his disdainful eyes before. Only this time, the disdain was for himself, for that part of him that dared to raise its dark little voice and oppose his actions.

He leaned down and covered her body with his, not easing his pace in the slightest. His warm, dewy skin set off every nerve ending it touched. In that moment Hermione knew that there were certain parts of him that couldn't be turned off, his sexual dominance being one of them. Surprisingly, she was all right with that. He wouldn't hurt her and he knew better than to degrade her. She squirmed against him, moaning softly. He was doing _anything_ but hurting her right now…

"This is what you showed me," he growled into her ear. "Is it what you want?"

And he was right; this was exactly how she'd envisioned them during her mental torture hours earlier, writhing together in his bed. It was what she wanted, for him to be pressed against her, every sweaty inch, like in her hallucination or dream or whatever it was when she had heatstroke.

"Yes," she said breathlessly. "Everything I showed you, I want."

He breathed a sigh that turned into a groan before pressing his face into her neck. His right hand dropped to knead her breast, his fingers pinching and rolling the nipple. All the while his hips never stopped, though he had slowed, enjoying the tight, wet slide of their joining. As he was sucking a hard bruise of possession onto her neck, Hermione fervently wished she could see the flex of his buttocks and the roll of his hips as he drove into her.

She started to release her legs, intent upon reaching down to cup that beautiful arse of his so she could at least feel him working and let her imagination do the rest. He caught her hands with a gruff command of, "No. Keep your legs around me."

Hermione complied with a whimper, arching up against him. She pulled against his hold, unable to keep still, and he easily overpowered her; he pinned her arms above her head, apart, his fingers winding into hers as if they were holding hands. His grip wasn't tight, and several times he let his hands wander down the sensitive skin of the insides of her arms and across her breasts. When he did she kept her arms where they were. She rather liked the feel of him holding her while she held him. It was like completing a circuit; the thrill of what they were doing certainly felt like electricity. A charge was building inside her, fed by the delicious advance and retreat of his escalating thrusts.

There was a rosy sex flush across his cheeks and chest. A few pieces of his hair clung to the light sheen of sweat on his neck and shoulders. Pleasure was beginning to beat the defiance from his eyes; they held hers, until a shot of glorious sensation made him close his eyes and moan.

"I fear…that this…is where I lose my manners," he panted, slotting his fingers between hers and pressing her into the mattress.

"Don't pretend you ever had any," she replied, feisty. Hermione gave a theatrical tug against his hold, simply because she knew it would turn him on. She was right. He reaffirmed his hold and thrust into her hard enough to earn a small cry at just how deep he went.

"From now on I won't," he countered fiercely, "since you don't appear to appreciate them, my uncultured little m--"

She chose that moment to squeeze her muscles around him with a vengeance, not caring to know which way he was going to finish that sentence. It felt good, a self-induced preamble to the fit of spasms she knew he'd drive her to.

"Sweet Merlin!" he gasped, all pretense gone. "Don't…stop!" She couldn't tell if he was asking her to cease or continue. It didn't matter; he began to plunge into her with abandon, making sure that his pelvis ground into her, stirring the bundle of nerves that would send her to ecstasy a second time.

He was loving her hard, demanding release through each moan and sigh. There was no respite from the steel of his cock piercing her or from the pleasure that chased it. She didn't want there to be. That wildness that had come over her while she watched him touch himself was returning. She struggled against his hold because she wanted to rake her nails down his back. All she could do was buck against him, crossing her ankles at the small of his back and trying to pull him closer.

His grip was sure and unwavering, meeting her every sensual thrash and containing it. She knew he was close. The battle of wills was demolishing his control. Hers was already gone. Hermione gave herself over to the carnal ritual, rocking her hips up against his as she quivered on the edge.

The vessel of her pleasure suddenly overflowed and a deep, soul-clenching orgasm rocked her. It wasn't like the sharp staccatos she'd experienced before. It was one massive, systemic crush of sensation and emotion. Tears peaked in her eyes of their own accord. Her voice was beyond her comprehension; she didn't know if she was speaking phrases or just making enraptured sounds, but his were joining her and his hands were clutching hers for dear life and a second later…

His forehead pressed into the bed right next to her, his cheek actually nestled in some of her errant curls. In three erratic thrusts she knew he was coming. A most erotic cry escaped him and his nails forged a path down her forearms. She escaped him then, wrapping her arms around him, holding him as he shuddered.

It seemed to last a long time. The last twinges of her orgasm were still fluttering through her womb as she cradled him. He didn't feel nearly as heavy now; Hermione felt like she could lift a horse with one hand. A moment later Lucius shifted to press his lips over hers. He kissed her like a man dying of thirst who had just found water. Her insides gave another little spasm at the passion in his lips and teeth and tongue.

Several thoroughly snogged minutes later, he pulled back. Hermione unlocked her legs, knowing that he had to dispose of that lovely piece of rubber that had enabled this. He looked down at her, an unreadable expression on his face. Then he leaned down to brush his lips against hers one more time.

Hermione was pleased to note that when he stood up, the muscles in his thighs were trembling ever so slightly. And he certainly didn't walk straight on his way to the loo. She smiled, knowing that if she tried to stand she would be even worse. Her knees might give out. No, standing was strictly off minutes for at least another ten minutes.

He wandered back in, having divested himself of the condom. It also looked like he had made an attempt to put order to his hair. It remained pleasingly mussed, though, a look she wouldn't mind seeing more often. And judging by the day they'd had, she would.

He climbed back into bed beside her. The movement to curl around her was automatic and she had to admit that it felt quite good to be in his arms. Still, one thing nagged at her.

_...my uncultured little m-…_

She had cut him off, afraid of what he would say. She knew it was the throes of passion, and that she had baited him. He'd clearly said that he would insult her back if she was too liberal with her own slights. But would he use _that_ word? It was obvious that blood status held very little meaning for him anymore, but it would still hurt to hear the slur come from his lips – even in friendly fire.

"Lucius?" she said softly.

"Hm?" His voice was soporific, on the edge of sleep.

"What were you going to say before?"

"That's a very vague question. You'll need to be a little more specific."

"Before, when you…you called me your uncultured little…and I cut you off."

"Muse," he answered right away, twisting and propping up on an elbow to look at her. "'My uncultured little muse' is what I was going to say before you squeezed the hell out of me and destroyed my ability to string together a coherent sentence. Or thought, for that matter."

Hermione blinked. _Muse._ Not mudblood. Not muggle-born. Muse.

"What is it?" he asked, seeing the tears gather in her eyes.

"Nothing," she whispered, blinking them away and smiling. "Let's go to sleep."

* * *

A/N 2: The book they were talking about early on (if any of you even remember that! Haha) was 'A Farewell to Arms' by Ernest Hemingway.


	16. Chapter 16

Author's Note: Unfortunately, everyone, I'm back in school for year 2 of master's study, so things are slowing down. I'm not sure how heavy my workload will be, so please bear with me.

Excel Go Boom: Yup, it is pretty cute. Here's a new chapter for the morning after...

Rowaine: Thank you. Believe it or not, it's my first attempt at a prolonged sort of romance, or at least a plot where romance is the central feature of the story and not some crazy adventure (though the romance itself ends up feeling like an adventure...hehe).

Lady Verity: Thanks, and sorry for the wait. As I said above, I'm back in school and it's really devouring my time. Blah.

GregoryHouseAddict: Thanks! I wouldn't qualify this as soon, but better late than never, yes?

fahzzyquill: Thank you! Glad I could do their first time justice.

brooklynsam3: Glad you enjoyed...there's more where that came from.

Alchemelia: Thanks! It is possible to write a great smutty scene, it's just that many people on sites either lack experience (and really, sex IS difficult to describe unless you've actually had it, but sometimes people who haven't can do it justice - I don't want to rule that out) or focus too much on the mechanics and leave out the emotions and sensations. Also, there's a very fine line between erotic and vulgar and sometimes it's hard to stay on the right side of that line! :)

QuirksnQuills: Haha, yes, the sex was so good that it made me typo. The last page of the protective spells was for the 'watersports' or 'golden shower' variety of kink, aka urinating on one's partner or being urinated on. That Smythe's classy, isn't he? Really, he was just trying to cover all the possibilities in a non-judgemental way. I knew that when writing the condom education scene, there had to be some kind of humor, otherwise it would just end up horrifically uncomfortable. As for my own stuff that I can make some money from, I'm starting...right now I'm freelancing for a magazine, so that brings in a little money. After grad school and after I've been working a few years and feel stable, I am definitely going to start writing my own material and shopping it around hardcore. At that point I'll actually be able to afford an agent. It's a solid goal of mine to have something published by 30. :) P.S. - Anais Nin? You flatter me.

Madam Thalia: gives you one of those handheld fans I'm glad you enjoyed their first time. They're a very passionate couple, aren't they?

SlytherinDragoon: Yup, the bridge is crossed. Now let's see if they can keep their hands off each other.

AcademicDragon: Thank you. It's good that the anticipation adds to the story, rather than takes away. :)

GurloftheNight: Thanks, and here you go.

Azrulai: Thanks. Hemingway is a good writer, but that book left quite the impression on me, as you can tell. I'd plug it and tell you all to read it, but you should be prepared for a depressing ending (which is NOT what you will get in this fic!).

Lucas'mom: Yup, our dear Healer Smythe is a dirty boy, but we love him. Heh - did you see the movie at Montage Mountain? Or, excuse me, the incredibly dumb new name, SNO Mountain? I went to many a movie there in my time in Scranton. I don't pay much attention to sports and I am a Philly transplant, not a native, so I'm not obsessive over the sports teams. Overall, I tend not to care and don't pay much attention. My favorite sport is soccer so I try to follow that, but it can be a little difficult since we don't get many games broadcast from the European leagues. Every game I find is usually a Tottenham Hotspurs match so I guess someone in programming is a Tottenham fan, lol.

Velvet Storm: Thank you, as always. And I hope I've been useful to you - I'm waiting to see the final version of your chapter. **While you guys are waiting between my chapters, you should go read Velvet's fics - they're great!  
**

loveismagic: That's going to be one of my new sayings now - hott, hott, a thousand times hott! ;)

* * *

She didn't think she dreamed. However, she did think she might be dreaming when she woke to a gentle kiss on the lips. Hermione blinked fuzzily, unraveling herself from sleep's grasp, and then attempted to focus.

She hadn't thought about the 'morning after'. Apprehension filled her; what _were_ they now? How were they supposed to behave? Would he address what had taken place last night or not mention it at all? And which was really the more appetizing choice?

Lucius was leaning over her, bent at the waist with both palms on the mattress. He was fully dressed and his hair wet but orderly on his shoulders. In her anxious morning daze, she was struck by how attractive he was. Especially when his eyes were unfettered; there was an ease to him, a masculine grace.

He leaned down and touched his lips to hers for a brief, seductive second. Hermione lifted her chin into it, but just as she did, he retreated a little. With a slight smirk, he said, "May I have my manuscript?"

"Feeling inspired?" she smirked right back. If he was going to play it this way, she had no trouble going along with it.

"You could say that."

"I'll have your promise that you won't burn, tear, sacrifice, or otherwise mutilate it first," Hermione said stubbornly.

His nose wrinkled in distaste. It was petulant and sort of cute, if such a word could be applied to him. It lent him the air of a spoiled child.

"I…promise," he relented.

"I'll strangle you with a daisy chain of condoms if you go back on it."

Lucius laughed. "You are delightful in the morning."

"I mean it, Malfoy."

He nodded. Then his smile faltered. "Well, you'd best hurry. One never knows how long inspiration will stay around."

Hermione looked into his face and tried to decipher the Byzantine layers of his statement. It could be taken so many ways. His mind wasn't giving her any clues; she thought she could detect a slight sadness in his eyes, though, in the way he stared back more directly than he ever would have before.

Impulsively, she rose up and closed the distance between them. She kissed him. He kissed back without hesitation, not seeming to care about her morning breath or her disheveled state. His lips were so soft and truthfully, he tasted good enough for the both of them. Tea and lemon and man…

They floated apart after a long, languid minute.

_I don't think your inspiration is going anywhere, _Hermione said, half entranced.

He smiled faintly. _Ah, but muses are capricious things, aren't they?_ His fingers drifted across her lips.

Before she could formulate a response, he levered himself up and reached for her wand. It didn't escape her notice that it no longer gave off angry red sparks at his touch. She was so caught up in pondering what that meant that she forgot she was trying to have the last word.

The opportunity had passed by the time he handed it to her. Hermione capitulated gracefully and proceeded to summon the vanished manuscript. She had completely forgotten that she had shoved it in one of her shopping bags.

Lucius raised an eyebrow as he extracted a blue and white patterned dress. He held it up and examined it.

"Well, at least I know my money is being well-spent," he said, the trademark smirk appearing again. Just like that, his good humor was restored.

"I have to spend it or else I'll be leaving a trail," Hermione said sourly. "I was serious, remove that damn charm from my handbag!"

"Why should I, if you keep buying scintillating garments? I would say I'm reaping the benefits."

Hermione sighed and fingered the soft fabric of the dress, not bothering to respond to the very Slytherin nature of his previous statement. "I'll never wear them back in England."

"Why?"

"They're not really appropriate for work."

"Just put a robe or a sweater on top if you're worried about modesty," he shrugged. "You work in a muggle-delegated department, so no one should take issue with you wearing a muggle garment. Don't others do the same?"

"A few. It's not that. It's…well, I'd stick out like a sore thumb, and…"

_And you don't like being noticed?_

Her eyes snapped up to him. He'd hit it so precisely on the head. It was kind of strange that someone like him, a man who made a life of being noticed, was so perceptive of those who embraced the opposite.

"I suppose I don't," she admitted warily.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes drifting over her. Until that moment she had forgotten that she was nude. Self-consciousness bloomed uneasily within, but the Gryffindor in her defiantly squelched any desire to cover up.

"I suspect," he murmured, "you are fighting a losing battle with that."

She made a face at him that clearly indicated that he was crazy.

"Give me one good reason that you shouldn't be noticed by anyone and everyone," he challenged.

She opened her mouth, only to find that she didn't have a ready response. He let her think, watching her with cunning eyes.

"Well, I guess…well, I've never exactly been the prettiest girl in the bunch, and I don't want people to just see me as a pair of breasts."

"You want them to recognize you for your mind?" he said wryly. "I think you have it backwards. I think they _only_ recognize you for your mind. What you really want is for them to see you as a beautiful, powerful woman in addition to an intellectual."

"Don't tell me what I want," she pouted, peeved that he could understand her where she couldn't fathom herself.

"Heavens, no, I wouldn't dream of such a thing." He set the dress down and extracted the bundle of parchment from the bag. She thought he was going to get up and leave, but at the last moment he surprised her by swinging his legs up onto the bed and rolling close to her. He lay on his side, contemplating her with his head resting on his palm. "Since I have no idea what you secretly want, then I shan't tell you how beautiful you are, and I certainly won't talk about how I had to address a rather stiff problem in the bath this morning just from the thought of you naked and asleep in my bed."

That made it abundantly clear how they were going to behave from here on out – like lovers. Hermione felt her entire body flush and cursed her overactive blood vessels. She was embarrassed, not because of what he said, but because of how accurately he'd pegged what she wanted and needed to hear. She wasn't that girl; she didn't need a man to tell her she was desirable.

_No, you don't need it, but that doesn't mean it's wrong to want to hear it._

_This, from a man who can't accept praise,_ she retorted.

"Just because I can't take it doesn't mean I can't give it," he replied smugly. "I am rather good with words, in case you didn't know."

Hermione had to laugh. She placed her hand on his chest and pushed. Her strength was pitiful; he barely budged.

"Go write, you insufferable man."

And this time he did get up, leaving her to ponder it all.

* * *

Hermione emerged from her bathroom some time later, bathed and refreshed and dressed in the blue and white dress that had been inadvertently imprisoned with his manuscript. When she slipped it on she thought about what he'd said earlier. She wasn't ready to admit that he was right, but she also wasn't above torturing him for his perceptiveness. She remembered now why she'd bought this dress; it hugged her in all the right places. The only thing that would feel better than wearing it was having someone peel it off.

She was sure she'd get to that later. Smiling to herself, she walked into the common area. She had missed the sight of him at the desk lost in concentration. However, that wasn't the sight that met her.

Lucius was sitting on the couch. He wasn't alone; Crookshanks was sprawled on the cushion next to him. The cat was on his back, wiggling around and pawing at a quill that Lucius dangled above him. Hermione blinked. Lucius Malfoy was playing with her cat.

That was interesting, indeed; Crookshanks had never had much affinity for Ron and Ron had even less for Crookshanks. She knew it mostly stemmed from their conflict third year about Scabbers, ne Peter Pettigrew. It was funny how they would probably all have been better off if Crookshanks had just caught the bloody rat and eaten him. Hermione shook her head in wonder. Near as she could remember, Lucius was the only man she'd ever been involved with that Crooks seemed to like. As she watched, her cat caught the quill with his claws and tore at the feathers.

"He'll destroy that if you let him," she spoke up, leaning against the doorframe.

"That's fine," Lucius responded. He surrendered the quill and Crookshanks proceeded to do what cats did; he spastically squirmed around and shredded the feather into pieces. At Hermione's quizzical look, he said, "I brought a half dozen quills. I tend to…snap them in half when I'm frustrated."

A lazy smile spread across her lips. She remembered the time he'd more or less abducted her and brought her to that cabin, wherever it was; there had been a quill bent in half on the desk. "I noticed."

"As entertaining as your cat…what's his name again?"

"Crookshanks."

"As entertaining as Crookshanks can be, he isn't my first choice of activity."

She sat down on the other end of the couch, tickling Crookshanks' stomach. "What do you mean?"

"I have a surplus of quills, but I ran out of ink. And I can't find my good inkpot, for that matter."

Hermione froze. Oh, shit. She vividly remembered throwing his inkpot against the wall when the stress of his disappearance overwhelmed her. "Erm, well, I may or may not have…broken it."

Lucius winced. "That was a family heirloom."

"Oh," Hermione moaned, her hand rising to her lips, "I'm sorry!"

"It's all right," he said resignedly. "It wasn't really worth anything and I had no major attachment to it. Though, it was charmed to refill itself so that it never ran out. That's why I only brought one small backup. We used up all that ink in our respective letters yesterday and in the nine pages I just wrote."

She knew she'd had a good reason for breaking the inkpot. Still, she felt a twinge of guilt over thoughtlessly destroying it. Who kept an inkpot as an heirloom? She shook her head; purebloods were so strange.

"So no more writing?" she sighed. She wondered what that was like for a writer, feeling the words swirling in one's brain but having no physical outlet for them. "I hope you don't lose your inspiration."

"Didn't someone just tell me that wouldn't be happening?"

"Well, I meant--" Hermione trailed off with a squeak. He was leaning over in that way of his, pinning her to the couch. Crookshanks leapt off the furniture with an affronted meow to avoid being sandwiched between them.

"Maybe I need a reminder," Lucius murmured, already kissing her neck.

Hermione gasped, both at the speed of his approach and the sensation of his lips against her pulse. He wasted no time in the switch from normal to amorous; or, she thought sardonically, he just didn't give her any time to object. But why would she want to?

_Why indeed?_ His voice threaded sinuously through her mind. His hands seemed to follow, trailing over her body. Though his touch lit her up with desire (even through the barrier of the dress), her mind struggled to catch up.

_Lucius__, it's ten in the morning, I haven't even eaten breakfast!_

"Sex now," he breathed into her ear. "Food later."

"Oh yes," she grumbled, squirming, "you have such a way with words."

The hot tip of his tongue trailed along her jaw. "Actions speak louder than words." He bit her chin gently, just enough for her to feel the edges of his teeth. "And other assorted platitudes…"

She had to admit, even tired platitudes sounded beguiling in his voice. Her opinion might have been biased, though. Damn those hands of his. His touch put such a big dent in her resolve.

"Lucius," she said, trying to keep her voice level and the grin off her face, "as your muse, I demand that you go write."

"Do you now?" She felt the tickle of movement against her neck as his lips rose and pulled back from his teeth in a wide smile. "Well, I mustn't displease my muse."

She thought that meant he was going to get off her and retreat to his desk – he was a resourceful man, he could figure something out – but that wasn't what happened. Once again her outfit was on his side; it was a wrap dress and all he had to do to access more of her skin was untie the bow that held the two sides together. He did that with a flick of his wrist. Perhaps she'd have to invest his money into something more secure; a dress with 27 petticoats and a corset, perhaps. No, that would probably make him all the more determined.

"What are you doing?" Hermione tried not to react to the gentle pressure of his fingers on her stomach. At least this time she was wearing a bra. If his hands found her breasts she'd be lost.

"Writing," he said with every ounce of faux innocence he possessed.

And he was; Hermione felt that there was a pattern to the movement of his index finger. It looped in his neat cursive, tickling across her skin. She couldn't quite make out what he was spelling at first. Then, when she had adjusted to his infernally light touch, she began to pick out letters.

_…omniamutanturnosetmutamurinillis…_

"Is that Latin?" she breathed, unsure where the spaces belonged because he hadn't paused.

"Yes. 'Omnia mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis'."

"All things change…"

"And we change with them," he finished softly. His hand moved again, this time tracing shapes on her chest. These weren't letters, though.

"Are you writing runes on me?" she asked with mild alarm.

"Possibly." Again, that convincing yet entirely transparent tone of innocence.

"What are you--"

At that moment, Jo-Jo appeared, apparating in with a bang. The elf looked panicked for a moment, having interrupted another interlude. Then she sighed and covered her large violet eyes. In her wrinkly little hand there was a new pot of ink. She held it up with long-suffering patience.

Lucius chuckled. "You can leave it on the desk, Jo-Jo. Thank you."

The elf was only too happy to place the ink on the desk and scurry away. Hermione was still stuck on the fact that Lucius had been tracing runes on her. He was no fool; he certainly knew that some combinations of runes had very specific meanings, and more importantly, held a very old kind of magic. What the hell had he written on her?

He leaned over and kissed the plane of her chest, where he'd drawn four little symbols. However, he didn't speak the spell to activate the runes. Hermione relaxed slightly. As he planted little kisses up her chest and neck and finally to her lips, his hands refastened her dress. It felt very strange indeed to have him _redressing_ her while he kissed her so scorchingly that her body was convinced he was doing the opposite.

His tongue withdrew slowly, lingering across her lips. It was amazing how quiet he went, verbally and mentally, when he kissed her. The only sound was his breath and the soft brush of his hands moving over the jersey of the dress. She listened to the hush, absorbed the tickle of his breath and the warm touch of his mouth, and something in her melted.

He probably intended to get up. He was going to actually go write. But the tenderness of his hands and his worshipful lips made her pull him back down. Lucius didn't fight; he sank upon her, seeming to know how much she liked his weight compressing her.

They kissed for some time, Lucius draped over her, her legs circled around him. She was dimly aware of Jo-Jo entering, doing something, and exiting again. The poor elf. It made her wonder if house elves were _always_ subjected to their masters' intimate activities.

_Stop thinking about elves,_ he purred.

Hermione ducked her head, embarrassed that she'd been caught. Of course it was a little unfair that he could hear her thoughts. How was he so adept at shielding his? Or could he really be that blank?

_You forget, Hermione, that men are rather single-minded when they have a pretty witch beneath them._

_Then shouldn't I hear 'sex sex sex!'? _she shot back playfully.

_If I was thinking that, you certainly would._

_Then what _are_ you thinking?_

There was a slight pause.

_Nothing.__ I'm thinking nothing. I'm just…feeling._ He kissed the corner of her mouth. _You should try it sometime._

_Now.__ I'll try it now._

"But it's ten in the morning," he whispered evilly. "You haven't eaten breakfast yet. And you commanded me to write."

"You enjoy being a bastard, don't you?"

"Almost as much as I enjoy being insulted by you."

"Well," she said, folding her arms over her chest, "I'll enjoy getting you back later."

"I look forward to it," he smirked. Then he carefully rose, leaving her in minor disarray on the couch.

* * *

Hermione had to find something to do. His flirtation and kissing and his damned _existence_ had worked her into a state of flustered restlessness. She was half tempted to march into the living room and tell him it was now half past eleven, she'd eaten breakfast, and she was exercising her right to be capricious in demanding that he stop writing. She had actually peered into the room on the verge of doing just that. However, he was so absorbed, his quill moving so quickly and consistently that she just couldn't interrupt him.

She had tried to occupy herself with a book for a while. However, her thoughts always strayed, unable to remain on the story. The day felt almost unreal. They had slept together last night. They'd had sex, made love, whatever one wanted to call it. And it had been bloody fantastic.

Now, here they were today, behaving as though that was nothing out of the ordinary. Flirting and talking and interacting like this was some normal relationship, like last night had been a perfectly natural progression. It just _couldn't_ be normal, though, could it? Everything that they were should have stacked up like a pile of boulders between them. He was Lucius Malfoy: pureblood aristocrat, frighteningly attractive, past naysayer of muggles and muggleborns, former Death Eater, Slytherin, man old enough to be her father, practitioner of dark arts, and most disconcertingly, HIV positive. She was Hermione Granger: muggleborn, Gryffindor, plain, preacher of equality, best friend of the man who had vanquished the Dark Lord, believer in light, and much too young for him. Could they really pretend that it wasn't completely backwards? More importantly, could they really pretend that they weren't who they were, with the unsavory past they shared, and that there was…a future for this?

Hermione sighed. She knew those things weren't particularly effective in stopping anybody from having a relationship. She had a sinking feeling that she was entering one – an unacknowledged, unlikely, and wholly consuming relationship. And it didn't feel all that _wrong_, per se. Interacting with him like earlier felt natural. Easy. Right. And the date last night, sweet Merlin…it was her dream date. Good food, good conversation, someone who was pleasing to look at and great in bed…Hermione bit her lip. Until now, 'good', 'pleasing', and 'great' were adjectives she hesitated to apply to him for anything other than his writing ability. She wound her fingers in her hair, pulling slightly at the roots. She was so bloody confused!

Ah. But he wasn't entirely devoid of bad behavior, was he? The runes he'd traced on her were proof. Maybe now that he was distracted, she could figure out what they meant. Yes, that would keep her busy for some time. She had done well in Ancient Runes class but it had been a while since she used that knowledge. A refresher was necessary. Nodding to herself, Hermione apparated back to her flat.

* * *

First she had to find and relearn the spell to reveal runes. Once drawn, they were often invisible unless activated by magic – which he hadn't done. However, even if they weren't activated, they remained unless a spell was done to erase them. He hadn't erased the runes, either.

Blowing out an apprehensive breath, Hermione lifted her wand. She was standing in front of her dresser, the Ancient Runes textbook open in front of her and her reflection staring nervously back from the mirror. Here went nothing.

"_Ostendo__ sum typicus_," she enunciated, flicking her wand at her chest. There was a brief shimmer and then the symbols appeared, rising to the surface of her skin like ink bleeding through paper. There they were; four neat runes, even and perfectly spaced. She carefully copied them onto the paper in front of her.

It hadn't been so long since she finished school, but she was drawing a complete blank on _all_ of them. She was glad no one was around to witness this. Ancient runes certainly weren't the be all and end all of her intelligence quotient, but it was embarrassing to forget what she'd once been fairly good at.

Sighing, she reached down to the book and flipped to the chapters that detailed the many runic alphabets. It seemed that he had used the easiest, plain Anglo-Saxon. Many of the others were too esoteric to be of any use. Though, she smiled, it might have been perversely appropriate if he had used Etruscan, being that they were in Tuscany.

Runes were a difficult subject. That was why few people bothered taking the class; usually it was full of Ravenclaws and a Slytherin here or there, as evidenced by Lucius and the fact that Sinistra taught it. It was coming back to Hermione bit by bit as she skimmed the pages.

She would do a literal translation and find out what letter each rune represented. Though this rune alphabet was originally Anglo-Saxon, scholars had found a long time ago that it translated well into English. One only had to make sure that they checked that what they spelled out didn't mean something else in the original language that could be problematic. The book contained several examples of this. It was mildly entertaining that 'STINKY POO' spelled out in Anglo-Saxon runes was a horrible death curse. The only one better than that was 'BANANA' in Scandinavian; it detailed a wish to violently remove a man's genitals and send them to the underworld. Hermione sometimes wondered how those scholars had figured all this out; she hoped it wasn't through trial and error.

A smile graced her lips as Hermione searched diligently for the first rune. Ah, there it was. It was the letter M. That shed some light on his scribblings. Hermione suspected he had just written 'muse' on her. She would have to check and make sure that it didn't have any negative definitions in Anglo-Saxon.

But the next symbol blew that theory out of the water. It was 'Isa', the letter I. Frowning, Hermione flipped through the pages with a bit more urgency. There was the third symbol, 'Nied', equivalent to N. The pompous ass, had he really…?

Yes. The last one was E. M-I-N-E. Mine.

She blinked at herself in the mirror, stunned. That was bold of him, wasn't it? Thank goodness he hadn't activated it. Merlin only knew what it would do. Shaking her head, she flipped back to see what each symbol meant. Only then could she see the real meaning and power of the combination of runes, regardless of what the actual word 'mine' inferred.

None of them were merkstave, or reversed. That was a relief, at least; it meant that there was no dark meaning in any of the symbols. 'MINE' wasn't on the list of poor translations, either, so Lucius wasn't unintentionally cursing her to a life of incontinence or any such nonsense. Hermione picked up a pencil and began to write on the scratch paper she'd brought, reasoning out the runes' magic.

When she was finished, she exhaled tremulously. She didn't know if Lucius had really been thinking about what he wrote, but the combination was eerily fortuitous. It roughly read: 'Accept human aid in this challenge. Seek clarity. Initiate change, overcome obstacles with the will to endure and survive. Move towards trust, harmony, and partnership."

Hermione stood there for a long time. It was _perfect_. Only, it didn't need to be written on her - it needed to be written on him. Hermione tapped her fingers, her mind too full and too chaotic. At last she pulled out a clean sheet of paper and proceeded to write a very long letter to Professor Sinistra.

* * *

It took a little while for her to respond, but Sinistra's letter was satisfying. Hermione had always liked her in spite of her quiet aloofness; she was one of the only Slytherins who never once remarked upon Hermione's muggle ancestry. She was sure the woman didn't care. Anyone who showed an aptitude for runes was worthwhile in her book. Her letter confirmed that.

_Dear Hermione,_

_It is wonderful to hear from you. Not surprisingly, most of my students go on to never use runes again, unless they become archaelogists. Minerva informs me that you are working for the Department of Muggle Affairs at the Ministry so that hasn't been your path, which makes it all the more delightful for me to receive a rune-related letter from you._

_You have correctly reasoned out the meaning of this combination of runes. It is as you say, and it happens to be a very potent combination, as well. The use of Eoh at the end strengthens all the other runes; it locks in their meaning. I have heard of MINE being used before, especially to mend strained relationships or provide support for loved ones going through difficult times. In English, MINE is a rather possessive term, which might seem off-putting. However, in Anglo-Saxon it is quite different. It conveys a more universal and selfless kind of affection. To write it upon another isn't to possess them. Rather, it is to unite with them, to make their struggles and triumphs your own._

_I see no reason why you can't use it. Though its sentiment is high its actual magical content is low; it relies on the initiator and the receiver to fulfill it. Runes are quite clever as I'm certain you know. If the rune were to force change, it wouldn't be change at all. More than anything else, MINE is a bond which provides mental and emotional fortitude to those who use it._

_I will confess that I'm terribly curious as to who you will use it on and why. Minerva tells me you are dating Ronald Weasley. I recall our conversations about Divination and I know that you are not a great supporter of those arts, but Hermione, your path with Ronald is destined to be a rocky one. Even the runes say so._

_There is no real consequence if the runes go unfulfilled, because the failure of that unity is consequence enough. Should the relationship falter, the runes will simply fade away. If you wish to reverse the runes and return this person's burdens to them, you need only use merkstave of YOURS. It isn't harmful but it does sever a relationship more completely than mere words can._

_ Sometimes runes are so complicated and sometimes so simple, it quite boggles the mind. I wish you good luck._

_Yours,_

_Eleni__ Sinistra_

_P.S. – I feel no shame whatsoever in saying that your letter has made my day._

_P.P.S. – I feel only the slightest bit of shame in requesting that you let me know how things go._

Hermione smiled. She was sure McGonagall was less subtle in her rampant curiosity and had probably forced Sinistra to put that last bit in. Unfortunately, she couldn't really fulfill their desire for more information. If either of them knew she was thinking of applying the runes to Lucius Malfoy…with whom she had not only found some odd sort of bond already, but _slept with_… she shook her head. Sinistra had it right – it boggled the mind.

Regardless, the letter sealed it. Tonight, when she set out to pay Lucius back for his teasing (not to mention his continued, though somewhat less terrifying presumption), she was going to do it. She grinned, reconciled with her decision and its many layers of meaning.

_Lucius__ Malfoy,_ she thought, _tonight I make you MINE. _

* * *

_Ostendo__ sum typicus - _show/reveal symbols

All rune info was acquired at www dot sunnyway dot com /runes . Am I an expert? Definitely not, so don't take what I say on the matter as any kind of authority. Funny story, though – right after I researched the runes for this chapter, I went to a concert and there was a guy wearing a t-shirt with Anglo-Saxon runes on it – and I could read it! I was very entertained. My friends just thought I was weird. Not that unusual of an occurrence, hehe.

It's also been pointed out to me that Sinistra isn't the Runes teacher...to which I say...she is now. :)

So, how is Lucius going to react to a taste of his own audacious medicine? We shall see.


	17. Chapter 17

Author's Note: Unfortunately I don't have enough time to respond to individual reviews today, but I promise I'll be back on form with the next chapter. There is angst and smut ahead. Hope you enjoy! (One important thing - the line breaks don't seem to be working for me, and when I try to space the sections out and then save it, it just reverts back to no spacing...soooo, until I figure out what the heck is wrong...please bear with me.)

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When she returned to the villa, Lucius had retreated outside to the courtyard. Her feet led her to the familiar alcove. Once there, she saw that he had done a little rearranging; there was now a table with an umbrella at which he sat, still writing. Amusingly enough, Crookshanks was sunning himself in the chair across from Lucius, and the small, as-yet-unnamed ginger kitten had evidently decided to play paperweight. It was curled on top of the growing stack of parchment near Lucius's elbow.

"I wonder if the drugs make me smell like catnip," Lucius said. She hadn't revealed her presence but it seemed that he instinctively knew she was there.

"Why is that?" she inquired, slowly emerging into the early evening sun.

"The cats won't stop following me around."

Hermione smiled. "I think I would notice if you smelled like catnip."

"Would you? You aren't a cat."

"It has a smell, though. It's herbal and a bit minty."

He nodded. "I never had a cat, so I wouldn't know. It was always owls for me." He set his quill down and stretched. She heard his spine pop a few times. It seemed he'd been quite diligent in his writing.

"They seem to like you a lot," Hermione said, a little intrigued. Crookshanks was generally independent. He wasn't the type of pet that followed people around unless he wanted something. She had instructed Jo-Jo earlier on how and when to feed him, and the litterbox was charmed to require little to no care. The only logical conclusion was that he genuinely liked Lucius, or that the novelty of a new person was such that Crookshanks temporarily became an attention whore.

"Indeed," Lucius commented. "I must ask, is it normal for them to follow you into the loo?"

"Oh, yes," Hermione chuckled. "There are no personal boundaries with cats."

"I'm not accustomed to putting on a show." He reached out to absently scratch the head of the little kitten.

"The loo isn't the worst. If you let them, they'll sit right on the bed while you're attempting to have sex. Sometimes they even try to get your attention while you're in the middle of it."

"I am sincerely hoping that you aren't one of the people who allows that," he said, a note of chagrin in his voice.

"No," she grinned. A mental image was forming in her brain, one in which Lucius forcibly ejected a disgruntled Crookshanks from the bedroom. Though, truthfully, if Crooks tried to interfere while she was getting cozy with Lucius, she would toss him out, too.

"Good."

He shuffled his papers, briefly upsetting the kitten to place the last page in the pile. Hermione watched him carefully; she noticed the way he flexed his wrist, as if it was sore. She also drank in the way the sun's slanting rays fell upon him. He looked beautiful in the villa's stone-enclosed, velvety darkness, but even more so in the warm glow of sunlight. He looked like he was _of_ the sun.

It had always been a curiosity to her that he had been named Lucius. Certainly it was a name that held remembrances of power and distinction; that was no stretch. But a man like him named after light? He had never personified his name. Hermione frowned. Something was gnawing at her.

This felt too normal, too easy, and too soon. It already felt like they did this every day – like she was returning home from work to her husband. It was quite the jolt.

This morning had been so natural, so straightforward. Was it really that simple to just…be together? Or was this a charade to cope with what they had done?

She closed the small distance to his chair and tried not to hesitate when she laid her hands on his shoulders. Lovers touched one another like this, casually, right? It took some getting used to. The muscles she found were a bit tense, either from sitting for so long…or from whatever he'd been committing to paper.

"How many pages?" she asked, pressing gently against the balled muscles.

"Twenty-four." He was relaxing already.

"Your muse is very pleased."

"I didn't know my muse came with massage service."

"Oh?" She smiled minutely to herself. Though talking to him was as distressingly easy as before, things still felt fragile for reasons she couldn't define. She couldn't say if it was her or him or both.

He leaned back slightly and rested his head on her chest. He didn't look up at her, though. She was quiet, kneading his shoulders and the base of his neck, his hair tickling her fingers. She didn't know what to make of his silence. It said so much and so little at the same time.

Back in his presence, the questions that had remained dormant at her flat exploded into the foreground once more. They weren't the questions that had plagued her in the beginning. The surprise from his foray into ancient runes had worn off and was now settling into something more confused and angst-ridden. He had already marked her once, however invisibly, with the Vow. How could he dare to try it again?

Aside from that, she didn't generally do well with things that didn't have a defined outcome and this was the epitome of undefined. Without knowing where things would go, she had a very hard time deciding whether or not her actions had been the right ones. But she also knew that right and wrong weren't really the issue.

Discomposed for no rational reason, she started to remove her hands. He caught one and brought it to his lips. She fought the urge to pull it away. He wasn't doing anything wrong. He was being exceptionally gentle and one might even say tender. This kind of behavior earlier had made her melt, made her heart open up like a lotus, and now it wanted to snap shut, transformed into a carnivorous flower with a fly in its nectar.

For the first time since waking, her brain wasn't fogged by the wonder of the night before. It was slowly moving away from the thrill of how incredible it was to see him like that, to touch him, taste him, to know what kind of passion existed inside him. Inexorably, logic was flooding back in. And logic said that it was the most complicated, dangerous thing she had ever done.

"You're upset," he said. One hand wrapped firmly around her wrist and the other reached up to capture the appendage that had escaped him. Now she was the fly stuck in the nectar.

"This…it's…I…"

"Do you need a label?" he asked. "Is that what it is?"

"I need a…"

What label could he possibly give her? And, well, what _did_ she need? Too much, most of which she couldn't put into words. She needed to make sure her moral compass wasn't depolarized. She needed to be sure she wasn't dreaming. She needed to know that she wasn't throwing away her relationship with Ron for someone less deserving. She needed to have someone other than herself or Lucius tell her that this was all right, because she didn't trust either to think straight.

"Do you regret it?" He had turned his face away, but she saw him swallow heavily. "Do you wish it hadn't happened?"

She knew how much it would hurt him if she said yes. She could feel the tide of pain already, lapping at the edge of her mind. It was bruising his ego just to see her suffer this paroxysm of doubt. Hermione couldn't help it. He had been so right this morning, when he said she should try to turn her brain off. It did this to her; it made her question her instincts.

"No, I don't regret it." She felt tears stinging her eyes. "It was wonderful."

"It can continue to be wonderful. Forget everything. Let us be as blank as this parchment for a few more days…" he trailed off, gesturing at the small stack of parchment he hadn't yet used.

The tone of his voice made her forget her own struggle for a moment. There was a quiet plea in it, coupled with a low, sad resignation. This was exactly what she was trying to siphon away from him, this melancholy. That was what the afternoon's plotting had been about. How had she gone from comfortable in the enigma of their union to completely unnerved by it? There was something her mind wanted, needed, but she had no clue what it was.

He released her hands, apparently taking her silence as a denial. Lucius stood and turned. His spine was rigid and his body tense. "You've spoken many words to me about what I am and what I can be…and still, you only see what I was." It wasn't accusatory, just straightforward, and that was what surprised her the most.

Hermione's eyes widened. "No, Lucius, I'm just…" She didn't know what she was. Something was blocking her words. Silence stretched between them. She could see the muscles in his jaw tightening. At last he spoke, his voice strained.

"Should I apologize? Is that what you want, for me to say I'm sorry for my previous existence?"

"Are you?" She wondered sometimes. Yes, she could admit that she wanted to know the depth of his remorse. Maybe that was what had been nagging at the back of her mind. Maybe that was the last barrier to everything.

"I was sick, Hermione," he growled.

"Then you're not sorry? It's someone else's fault?" she fired back, feeling her anger rise abruptly.

"You don't understand," he returned numbly. "You don't understand the way he manipulated me and I don't expect you to. If I am sorry for anything, it is ever listening to him. Ever believing a word he said." His shoulders drooped slightly and a deep sigh made his chest rise and fall. "The simple fact is that I _chose_ to follow him…in the beginning. I was not so far gone then. But it was far enough."

An almost corporeal relief swept through her at the play of regret on his face, easily replacing the brief anger. She did understand the way Voldemort had manipulated him, courtesy of the nightmare she'd witnessed after his breakdown. The hell-eyed bastard had scented blood, young, frightened, volatile blood, and he had known exactly what to do to make Lucius a monster – his beautiful monster.

No matter how sick he'd been, this wasn't the proverbial 'get out of jail free' card for Lucius. He couldn't just shake off his former life; the disease was karmic proof of that. The things he'd done clung like burrs to a pant leg. Eventually the burrs could be cast off but not without a sharp prick to the fingers that sought their removal. She knew she was sticking him quite painfully right now.

"It was…him," she said softly, her throat tight with emotion. The menace of that dream and the reality of what Voldemort had done to him, the full extent of which was still unknown, hit her powerfully. "He took advantage of you."

"I didn't fight it…" He looked away. "It seemed like the solution to everything that plagued me. I know now that I had other options."

"How much fight could you have had, after everything you went through?"

"There are people whose lives are far worse than mine was…who never turn out like me."

"You're right, some turn out worse," she said. She had wanted him to acknowledge that he'd made some grievously wrong turns in his life, but not descend into too much self-directed blame. That wouldn't help him. "And most people don't have the misfortune of catching Voldemort's eye."

"Please, I don't wish to hear his name," he said quietly. "I don't understand you, Hermione. In one breath you condemn me and in another you comfort me. Are you trying to break me down or build me up?"

She thought back to her high-rise analogy, to the pretty building collapsing into the liquefied soup of its foundation. Hermione offered him a small smile. "You can't rebuild something until you figure out why it fell down."

He closed his eyes. "Are you an architect? Because I must inform you that I'm not a pile of blocks."

"I know," she agreed softly. "Lucius, I don't see you as the man you were. If I did, I would have turned you in ages ago, Vow or no Vow. I wouldn't be here. I'll admit that my feelings are…not always consistent, and I have a hard time accepting how much things have changed. Can you honestly say that you don't sometimes see _me_ as what I was?"

"I can only see you as you are, because I had no concept of what you were." He took a tentative step forward, erasing the distance he'd put between them. Hermione's breath caught. That might have been one of the most profound things anyone ever said to her and coming from him it was one hell of a panacea. She was like a deer in the headlights as he slowly drew level with her, moving carefully so as not to spook her away. His hand cupped her cheek. "The man who thought he knew what you were died in the war."

She touched his hand, fingers drifting across the skin and knuckles.

"Doesn't it frighten you?"

"What do I have to be frightened of?" he asked, shaking his head. "The only thing left for me to fear is losing my son and I've already done that, at least emotionally…but physically, I know he's safe."

It was the first time he had mentioned Draco in any serious and present terms. The hurt in his voice was palpable. It was tempered with understanding, though; he knew his son was within his right to be angry. "Draco will forgive you," Hermione said. Her foolish ex-classmate could hold a grudge, but in the end his parents were the only thing he had. He just needed time to put his mind and his life in order.

"Perhaps," Lucius replied, but didn't seem convinced. "But Hermione, so many of my mistakes were borne of fear. I can't let it hold sway over me anymore."

She looked up at him, staring into his pale blue eyes. Oh, she knew fear. She recalled it easily, the suffocating, mindless beast that had blanketed her so often during that last year of the war. It still cropped up on her sometimes, but it wasn't remembrance of events that reduced her to shivery tears. It was the knowledge of how _lucky_ they had been, of how many times they could have died, and of how often they had to push that to the back of their minds and just go on like terror wasn't lurking around every corner. It was so visceral, that realization that she could have died at sixteen in the Department of Mysteries or at eighteen during the horcrux hunt. Dolohov could have killed her. Bellatrix could have killed her. Greyback could have killed her. Any random Death Eater at the Battle of Hogwarts could have killed her. But it was never Lucius behind that wand.

Yes, they had faced him in the Department of Mysteries and the unspoken threat was always there. But the very fact that he hesitated, that he didn't just fire the Killing Curse like Bellatrix or lethal-had-it-been-verbalized hexes like Dolohov, made him different. They wouldn't have stood a chance against him, DA or not. He could have killed them all for his agenda. Even in the haze of his insanity, he had recognized the difference between getting what he wanted and murdering children. His compatriots never had.

Cedric Diggory's face flashed in her mind. Then Fred Weasley. Colin Creevey. Even Draco, fenced in by a wall of unquenchable fire, knowing he was dead unless his enemy had mercy upon him. A cascade of people, faces, splintered families. And then the sounds, explosions and shouts and cries…

The muggles called it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The wizarding world didn't have a name for it. She knew she had it; for the month or two immediately after the war she would panic if her wand wasn't directly in her hand or up her sleeve. She sometimes became insecure in crowds and especially in restaurants, irrationally believing that someone was going to come out of nowhere and try to kill her. Loud noises spooked her and she'd suffered many sleepless nights, plagued by nightmares. After one of those nightmares had woken her screaming and crazy at her memory-restored parents' house in Australia, they had forced her to tell them all that happened in the war. When she was finished her mother climbed into bed with her and stayed there the rest of the night while her father went to make some phone calls. The very next day she was in therapy.

It had helped immensely. She had tried to get Harry and Ron to see someone, too, but they weren't particularly receptive. Harry spent most of the six months after the war just existing, sleeping, reading, spending time with Ginny and being as reclusive as he possibly could. It seemed like that was what he needed. Ron, on the other hand, had finally gotten his fame. He had done most of the liaising with the media. He had attended the flurry of balls and galas and store openings and whatever other mundane activity they could possibly think of to involve war heroes in. When he was not at some event he spent much of his time quiet, sullen, and sleep-deprived, but his family had drawn closer than ever. Through them – and her - he had found solace. Somehow life marched on.

Hermione tried to blink back her tears. What _was_ she afraid of? A man more broken than her? A caricature? Her heart winning a battle with her mind?

"I've told you before I'm not worth crying over," he said, his arms wrapping around her tightly.

"It's…not you," she hiccupped into his pectorals.

"Then what is it?" _Besides all my former misdeeds, _his mind strayed.

"Sometimes I…I have these flashbacks…I know you must, too…"

He sighed and he pulled her in closer, if that was possible. Her tears were wicked away by his shirt. "All the time."

"But we just go on with our lives…even though we're…a mess inside…"

"As they say, misery loves company," he murmured, his hand sifting through her curls. "But the thing is, in _good _company we are no longer miserable."

Hermione felt like she'd been struck by lightning. He was right, so right. She had been happier during most of this time with him than she had been in the last two years. Even trying to puzzle him out and weathering the emotional squalls, she felt enriched, enlivened…she felt like she had _before, _antebellum. He made her feel hopeful. Idealistic. Non-cynical. Confident in the goodness of people…and like she had some control over the world around her. It was ironic; all the things she sought to foster in him, he had also re-sown in her.

She threw her arms around his neck and jumped, clamping her thighs around him. The sudden move and extra weight threw him off balance, but he managed catch himself. He opened his mouth to say something. She smothered it with her lips. He kissed her for a moment before he attempted to speak again, his lips still half-pressed against hers.

"Hermione--"

She stuck her tongue in his mouth. They had done enough talking for the moment. He got the message, gladly offering the partnership of his tongue. Very gladly. He was kissing her hard, his hands on her bottom.

For her part, Hermione was experiencing a perilously quick and dizzying climb to arousal. As sad as she had been moments before, she was now incredibly, incredibly turned on. Perhaps that wasn't the right word. No. She was _needy_.

That was all right; so was he. She knew it was sublimating all the feelings they struggled with, that it wasn't immediately dealing with the emotional scar tissue, but it was a way to heal. Accepting one another was momentous. She saw that now.

His tongue was thrusting and sliding along hers, mapping her mouth, her teeth, her lips. He pulled the hem of her dress up so that he could touch her skin, his palms sliding along the back of her thighs. It was unspeakably sensual and she squirmed against him.

Then they were moving. He was walking. Toward the house, into the house, and once they were inside the door he was pressing her up against the wall, the cool stone soaking its serenity into her back.

The support of the wall helped him; he was able to lean back slightly and undo the tie of her dress. It would have been convenient if her bra was a front closure, but it wasn't. With his lips scoring her neck and collarbones, she struggled out of the dress sleeves and he tugged the straps down. They probably looked ridiculous. She didn't really give a damn when finally, finally his mouth found her nipple.

"Lucius," she gasped, almost beyond thought. "Oh…the spells…"

"Here," he breathed, pressing a wand into her hand. She honestly wasn't sure if it was hers or his. It didn't matter. She quickly cast the necessary spells over both of them. And one more thing…

"Accio condoms!"

The box zoomed to them with such speed that Hermione couldn't quite catch it. It flew through her fingers directly into the side of Lucius's head and then fell into the space between their chests. He barely blinked, though he did mutter, "A bit overzealous, hm?"

"You're the one shoving me up against the wall!"

"You started it," he replied.

"And you better finish it," she demanded. At the tone in her voice his urgency multiplied; he extracted one of the condoms, tossed the box on the floor, and tore open his prize. He didn't even need to voice what he wanted when he held it up. She cast the Unbreakable charm with a tremor of excitement in her voice.

He let her ease to the floor, unable to hold her up and apply the prophylactic at the same time. That was fine; Hermione took the opportunity to wiggle out of her knickers and then watch as he doffed the rest of his bothersome garments. God, he looked sexy in nothing but an unbuttoned dress shirt and a condom. Her arousal wasn't lacking by any means, but the sight of him caused an additional warm rush between her thighs.

He pried the wand from her hand and cast the No-slip spell while she ogled him. Then he dropped the wand on the floor and leaned forward with a low growl, his hands hooking beneath her bum and lifting. Now the wall was cold against her back and it contrasted radically with the heat his body provided as he pressed against her.

The kiss he captured her in erased all thought. And if anything remained, the sensation of him carefully lowering her onto his cock obliterated it. He found his fit easily and let his hips and gravity do the rest, sinking him to the root inside her. She moaned into his mouth, moving her tongue against his and looping her arms around his neck for support and leverage. It didn't offer much, but she could at least raise herself an inch or two. She did so, impatient for his motion.

"Witch, you will be the end of me," he exclaimed, his voice a bit strained. She knew the delay was only because he needed to find the right configuration. He did a moment later, staggering his feet and pulling her a few inches from the wall. Her upper back still rested on it, supporting some of her weight, and now he could hook her legs over his arms at the knee. He pulled back and thrust experimentally. Hermione's vision clouded; that was an _exceptionally_ good angle. The whimper that came from her throat told him that.

He smiled and then lowered his mouth to her nipples. As he tongued and sucked, he began to rocks his hips in earnest. He could plunge so deep like this; Hermione felt impaled, almost overfilled. But the slight discomfort of that was offset by the heavenly slide of each thrust, until the emptiness when he pulled back felt stranger than the fullness. He lifted his head and kissed her and they sighed into one another's mouths.

They both knew this wouldn't be prolonged. Lucius couldn't hold her up forever. She was fine with that. Last night he had clutched so tightly to his control, probably worried that after a three year drought, he wouldn't last long enough. He had far exceeded her expectations. What had driven her most insane, though, was seeing him _lose_ that control, feeling him thrust hard against her, hearing sounds of unrestrained pleasure spill from his lips. There was something about a man like him coming undone.

This was the perfect vantage point. They were close to the open door so the cooling charm wasn't as efficient as it might have been further into the house; faint glistens of sweat were already appearing on him. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back slightly and his lips parted as he pressed into her with escalating force.

A moment later he caught her staring. He made a slight adjustment in their position and Hermione's world shivered; every move he made rubbed maddeningly on her clit. She hadn't known it was possible to be this turned on. All she could do was gasp and writhe against him, desperately seeking the release he stoked.

"That's better," he breathed. He leaned close again, nipping and suckling at her earlobe. "I want to hear you scream."

His words provoked a little spasm inside her. Inflamed with passion, she twined her hands into his hair and tugged. The result was fantastic; he released a groan and slammed his hips against her hard enough to rock her head back against the wall. The impact sent a red-hot bolt of ecstasy careening through her and tore an answering moan from her throat.

_All right?_ His voice sounded in her head, fragmented by the roar of input that was currently flooding her brain. He must have been worried about the bump on her head.

"I'm fine!" she nearly shrieked. Oh, Merlin, she was so close. "Do that again!"

A shaky exhalation escaped him. "What's the magic word?"

"Please, Lucius, you sadistic son of a--!"

"Oh, yes, that's it…" He threw his head back and pounded into her, raising her body a few inches each time he thrust inside her slick passage. The corridor filled with pants and moans and the sound of flesh meeting flesh.

She was losing her mind. It was so deliciously rough. She had never before understood the appeal of a quickie, for lack of a better term; then again, she had never in her life become so aroused in so short a time. It felt bloody amazing and she was going to squeeze him clean off when she came, Merlin help her…!

"Lucius! Lucius!"

She didn't realize she was shouting his name like a mantra. He did, though, and it was shattering what little control he had. She felt him shift her like she weighed nothing, lifting her legs slightly so that her calves rested on his shoulders. Then he leaned forward and braced his hands on the wall, effectively folding her and bringing her knees up against her chest.

He was so deep that she could barely breathe. But oh, God, she was there, there, just a hair's breadth from an insane orgasm. And because she could hardly move, pinned as she was, it felt like every twitch of pleasure was pooling between her legs. It drew in from every nerve ending, every tactile receptor, every muscle, building and building until her only scattered thought was that she was a goddess about to birth the universe.

There was a great clench in her womb and she physically felt her insides crush around him, tugging at his intrusion as if she was trying to pull him even further in. Pleasure exploded in every direction, spiraling, zig-zagging, wreaking havoc on her nerve endings. She couldn't thrash. All she could do was keen and scream and squeeze.

In the force of that orgasm he couldn't last. His tortured yet entirely beautiful cries joined hers as her warm woman's sleeve gripped him in relentless spasms, wringing out his own release. It lasted a long time, continuing through many shallow thrusts and a litany of exaltations and groans. She forced herself to open her eyes. Watching him was her second-favorite part.

That was perfect. His face was a flushed mask of ecstasy. Slowly, their orgasms receded together, hers lowering to a dull, tight throb of remembered pleasure. Her left leg slipped from his shoulder and he caught it with a trembling arm. She felt like every bone and muscle in her body had liquefied. From the way he leaned on her, he probably felt the same, yet he was still half supporting her weight.

They breathed hard, speechless. She couldn't say how many minutes went by before she found some words.

"Oh, God. Oh my God."

He made a sound of acknowledgement. Then he carefully pulled out and lowered her to her feet. She was grateful for the wall; she wasn't entirely sure how he could crouch down to pick up his wand without keeling over. A moment later he wrapped his arm around her waist and apparated them to the bedroom. He laid her in the bed that Jo-Jo had made yet again and then disappeared from her hazy, swimming vision for a minute or two. Then he was back, falling into bed beside her without a word. There they lay for a long time, luxuriating in stunned, satiated silence.

Hermione noticed, half an hour later, that her fingers were twined with his – and that he was dead asleep. Smiling, she curled up to him. A little nap wouldn't hurt. Jo-Jo would wake them for dinner. Hermione wondered what she would think when she found a pile of empty clothing in the hallway. The poor, poor elf.

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It wasn't Jo-Jo that woke them, but rather Crookshanks and the kitten. In an odd mockery of their earlier conversation, both cats invited themselves into bed with the mostly-naked couple. Hermione woke with Crookshanks pawing at her hair and Lucius, startled awake by the weight of the kitten on his chest, sat up quickly with a confused look on his face. The sudden motion made the kitten tumble into his lap. He blinked at the bundle of fur that now contentedly lounged in his rather exposed groin.

"That is not where you belong," he grumbled. He cautiously lifted the kitten out of his lap and placed it between them before easing back down. Hermione had already shooed Crooks away from her hair; he knew very well it was not a toy.

"How about we just named the kitten Ginger?" she said after a few content minutes passed.

"It's a male. You can't name a male Ginger," he replied around a yawn.

"Why not?"

"No."

She propped up on one arm, contemplating him. "Do you have a better idea?"

"I'm fairly certain that I recently ejaculated half of my brain cells, so no, I do not."

Hermione smiled and poked him in the arm. "You just don't want to name him."

"So?"

"Look at this face," she pressed, lifting the kitten and holding him where Lucius could see.

"A right sort cuter than your cat," he snorted.

"Careful, he'll hear you and pee on your manuscript."

Lucius rolled his eyes.

"I'm serious. He's very smart. He's part kneazle, you know."

"All right, I take it back. He's very handsome."

"Do you have a familiar?" Hermione persisted.

Lucius sighed dramatically. "I will think of a name. Does that satisfy you?"

She couldn't keep the smug smile off her face.

"Careful," Lucius admonished, sitting up and leaning over her. "Grins like that beg to be kissed off."

"Is that so?"

"It is." He descended toward her lips and Hermione stilled in anticipation, but at the last moment he feinted and climbed over her, escaping the bed. She threw a pillow at him. He deflected it easily and picked up his trousers. Jo-Jo had brought their clothes back in, folding and hanging them neatly. She really was above and beyond.

And so was Lucius, with trousers that she knew hid no boxers beneath them, an unbuttoned shirt, and sex-tousled hair. It really was sort of unfair how attractive he was. Though, she doubted many women ever got to see him like this, so she felt a little better.

"What do you want for dinner?" he asked, fiddling with the cuff of his shirt.

"Something delicious."

"I will refrain from commenting and deliver that message to the chef."

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Hermione lay in bed for a while, thinking. It was like her mind and her mouth worked independently of one another around Lucius; before she could even quantify her thoughts, she was bantering with him. It was so _easy._ And so disconcerting.

Lucius Malfoy's sexual and relational behavior had never been a very prominent topic of thought in her past, but she realized that she had expected certain things of him. She expected a cold man, someone who cared for his pleasure and no one else's and took it with frightening, emotionless precision. Certainly not someone who would lie in bed with her afterward, flirt and joke and tease.

The level of affection he was displaying was something she hadn't thought him capable of. She was so thrown by it that she couldn't quite believe it was real. She felt like every moment of it was some great hallucination.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that it was genuine. He wasn't acting. The things he said and did were real, borne from some amorphous feeling inside him that he refused to be ashamed of. For a long time she had cursed the house of Slytherin for their constant need to speak half-truths and always behave as though someone was watching. Now that Lucius wasn't doing either, she had lost a reference point. She felt like she had gone to sleep one night and woken up in another universe.

Maybe she had, but surely Lucius felt the same way. Evidently, he handled it better than her. Or maybe he just didn't care.

The bottom line was that aside from his unsavory past and eventual future, Lucius was turning out to be a fantastic companion. Hermione could scarcely wrap her head around it. But maybe, just maybe, she didn't need to.

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Dinner was rich and the accompanying wine left them both heavy-eyed and serene. Hermione had consumed too much of it, but not so much that she was truly intoxicated. Seeing Lucius drink still set off a small flare in her mind, given his mother's fate, but he seemed firmly in control of the vice. He helped himself to wine but was never even close to drunk.

Words seemed to have gone out of favor. They had probably used up their day's quota in the courtyard's pseudo-confrontation. That was all right; conversation would most likely spoil the calm perfection of the moment.

He had enlarged her bath and dragged her in with him, not that she had put up much resistance. There she lounged, seated between his thighs with her back against his chest and her head on his shoulder. His hands rested along the smooth bareness of her skin, caressing every so often, yet his touch wasn't overtly sexual.

She tried to think but found that she couldn't. Her mind refused. It was blank and tranquil. All it processed was the sound of crickets coming in through the open window, his soft, even breath, and the warm, fragrant cocoon of his body and the water around her. There were so many lovely sensory things to pay attention to.

_Blank as parchment…_

He'd done it. He'd made her feel instead of think. And she wondered dreamily if this peace was anything like what he felt when he had her close to him. If it was, she could understand his moth-to-the-flame behavior.

Ah, but that was too much thought. It had been a long, tumultuous day. She was tired, so very tired and full and buzzed and…content. With a small smile Hermione turned slightly, tucking her head beneath his chin. The runes and everything else could wait until tomorrow.


	18. Chapter 18

SlytherinDragoon: Yes, much of what Lucius has done in life was driven by fear, and he's starting to understand that. Hermione is a step away from living that way...if she can stop overanalyzing. :)

Rowaine: Thanks...and merry chapter 18?

sunshine37: Thanks!

Azrulai: Yes, Lucius may not realize what an accomplishment it is to turn Hermione's brain off. I've always seen that as a small character flaw in her - she can't 'smell the roses', as the saying goes.

brooklynsam3: Thanks!

loveismagic: Yes he did, that was definitely a victory for Lucius.

Gurlofthenight: Thanks!

VelvetStorm: Yeah, Lucius's past had to rear its ugly head at some point and thankfully they have advanced to the point where they can speak about it in a (mostly) rational way. And as for Jo-Jo, I think she deserves an award, don't you?

star240: Thanks!

Alchemelia: Glad I could improve your day a bit. :)

Lizthatsright2: Hope you are feeling better, and glad you're enjoying the fic!

sjrodgers108: Here you go.

ArieSemir: I feel the same way about Lumione stories - there are a lot of good ones, but there also a lot of bad ones. I'm glad I'm in the first category! I'm also glad that I've made Lucius and Hermione believable. They are both such great characters, intelligent but flawed, and I'm trying to be as realistic as possible. Hopefully you continue to enjoy their journey. :)

* * *

They had gone to bed early, lulled by the villa's lightless shroud, and so they woke up early. Hermione could have slept on for a while longer. However, the touch and slide of Lucius's hands was more enjoyable than whatever dream she was having.

It was just before dawn. The light in the room was low and softly grey. Lucius was spooned against her back, his warm skin feeling like an extension of her own. Even as she smiled sleepily at how cozy and secure it felt, he nudged a leg between hers, parting them slightly. His hand slid from its cradling hold on her breast to the apex of her thighs.

A low, sweet heat traveled with his hand. She sighed, waiting for his fingers to part her, but he was in no rush. For a few minutes he just held his hand there, cupping her sex. Then his lips began a gentle pressure across her shoulder. With a nudge of his nose, he pushed her hair aside and moved on to the side of her neck. She had to squirm then, pressing forward into his hand.

He trailed kisses up the side of her neck and when she felt the warm brush of lips on her earlobe she tensed in anticipation. The application of his tongue sent a shivery rush to the flesh he held almost like it belonged to him. Her breath came faster and her nipples hardened to aching points.

By the time his hand began to tease, she was sodden with desire. He knew it, yet all he did was put a firm pressure on her, rubbing up and down slowly. Though her swelling clit was enclosed by the soft protection of her mons and labia, she could feel the movement and the pressure. It was torturous and wonderful at the same time.

A moment later his muscles flexed and he rolled, pulling her on top of him. He shifted back with her in tow. It propped them into a position not unlike the night before in the bath; she was seated between his muscular thighs, her back along his chest, only this time she could feel the burgeoning heat of his erection against her lower back and his touch was anything but tame.

She gasped when his other hand, now freed, came up to pinch sharply at her nipple. It flirted with the borderline of pain. Even so, she found that she wanted him to do it again. He was still doing that maddening massage between her thighs, a little faster now, his palm and fingers pressing upward against the flesh that hooded her most satisfying places. She had read that an indirect approach to stimulation could sometimes be just as pleasurable as a direct one; Lucius was proving that to her now, his hand touching everywhere but where she wanted him to.

He kissed the side of her neck. Hermione just breathed, absorbing the incongruous sensation of his fingertips. Lucius continued his slow ministrations, his other hand still lavishing a variety of attentions to her nipples. They were quite hard, unashamedly enjoying his alternating approaches of stroking, tugging, and rubbing.

She sighed at the loss of contact as his top hand left her breast. A moment later she felt his fingers against her lips. She was about to suck one into her mouth when she remembered.

_The spells?_

_Already done._ His hand tilted her chin back and to the right. _I knew when I woke up that I had to have you._

Hermione purred at his confession and stretched to kiss him. His lips were relaxed and didn't hold the urgency of the day before. He was kissing her like he had the first time. Slowly, deliberately, sensually, so that she could feel every little move and tease. The same cool humidity was in the air around them; it would rain today.

Let it rain. It would keep them inside all day, penned in by the grey skies with only one another for entertainment…she tossed the thought at him. He tugged gently at her lower lip with his teeth.

_Are you sure you want to be 'penned in' with me all day?_ he asked, voice undercut with a humorous warning.

She looked into his eyes. They were bright but calmly filled with desire. That look promised a very attentive coupling. Hermione was fine with that; yesterday evening had been so hard and quick and frenzied. The contrast of a lazy morning session would be welcome.

_Yes, I'm sure._ She smiled. _Light the fire, it's a bit cool in here._

There was a tic in the left side of his mouth; he was trying not to smile. _Shall we lie on a bearskin rug and make love in front of it?_

"No," Hermione laughed. "I think we fulfilled our cliché quota yesterday."

"Don't call a writer cliché, Hermione," he groused good-naturedly. "It's like telling a woman she's fat, or a man that he has a small penis."

"Well, you are neither fat nor lacking in the penis department." Hermione colored as soon as it was out of her mouth; damn that faulty brain filter!

He couldn't contain the smile anymore. It spread brilliantly across his face, revealing his very white teeth that, upon closer inspection, weren't _quite_ perfect, but very nearly so. "But I'm still cliché?" he teased.

She gave him a look. "You couldn't be cliché if you tried, you bastard."

"Mmm, you know just what to say to turn me on." The statement was only half-sarcastic. He gave her another barely-there kiss and then reached for his wand. With a flick of his wrist and a spell, the fireplace crackled to life. "I hope that Healer Smythe doesn't decide to pay us a visit," he added as an afterthought.

"Close the floo."

"He's a rotten spy and he would deserve the unpleasant surprise."

"Why do you say that?"

"Jo-Jo told me he was here the night we…first became amorous. That is how he knew to send the condoms."

"And aren't you glad he did?" she chided, lightly pinching his forearm. "Close the floo."

"I already have, silly witch." His hand finally trailed up from between her thighs to join the other. One stayed beneath her chin and the other rested at the base of her neck. He was unmistakably in charge. _Now…enough talk._ His tongue grazed her ear. _The only words I want to hear from now on are 'Lucius', 'oh', 'yes', 'please', 'God', 'fuck'…_ he trailed off.

_You seriously underestimate my vocabulary, _she returned playfully.

_And maybe you seriously underestimate my ability to obliterate it._ His words were accompanied by another wicked pinch to her nipple.

Hermione yelped; that one hurt more than before. She tried to squirm but he held her in place, his arms unyielding. Evidently, he wasn't playing anymore. His mood had shifted from light to domineering. She lay still and tense in his embrace, wondering what he would do.

He seemed to approve of that. His lips trailed lightly over the side of her neck, sending little tremors of anticipation dancing through her body. She wasn't really frightened but she couldn't claim total comfort. Her apprehension couldn't quite be stifled because this part of him reminded her of who he was – or who he had been.

The more time she spent with him, the more she realized how apt it was that Lucius was a Slytherin. He was so like his house's mascot, the serpent. They had a bad reputation and she was as guilty as anyone in perpetuating that. She had forgotten that there were wondrous and positive things about snakes. They were graceful, fine-tuned creatures, and too often the few poisonous ones overshadowed the many benign species that existed.

And like all snakes, poisonous or otherwise, Slytherins could shed their skin. Lucius certainly had; that old armor was left behind in his cell in Azkaban. Superficially, he bore the same stripes and scales and fangs as before. Only she knew that inside he was a different man – a better man.

She couldn't doubt him anymore. It would ruin him and he didn't deserve it. She never would have thought that _she_ would be the one having more difficulty adapting to their strange relationship; _he_ was the one letting go of prejudices, the one who was set in his ways. Yet he had settled into this with barely a whimper.

Maybe there was no fight left in him, or maybe Hermione was more prejudiced than she ever realized. Since she had entered the wizarding world she had been inundated with its commonly accepted beliefs, some of which she detested with every fiber of her being and others that she accepted as absolute fact. Now she could see that some of those things she'd acknowledged as divine writ were every bit as prejudicial as the things she railed against. Prime among those was the belief that all Slytherins were at their core deceptive, terrible people.

Some were…but so were some Gryffindors. She only needed to look as far as Peter Pettigrew to prove that. Even their animal, the lion, had its share of faults; lions could be lazy, brash, caught up in group think, and needlessly violent or territorial. Until now it hadn't been convenient to think about, so she ignored it. Realizing that, it was a little bit easier to understand how Lucius could have spent so much of his life believing what he did.

Bias was easier than truth until someone came along to challenge it. They had done that for each other. And he had not for one moment punished her for demolishing his ignorance. She wouldn't continue to do it to him.

"What are you thinking about?" he whispered against her ear. "It had better be me."

"Or else what?" she offered back.

"No 'or else'," he replied, sliding his hand slowly down her body to dip between her thighs and sample her wetness. "I _know_ you're thinking about me."

He was very correct, especially now that his fingertips were ghosting temptingly against the sensitive areas that had been primed for his touch. She had to smile at his self-importance.

"You're right," she admitted as she parted her legs wider, resting one foot next to the outside of his knee. "I'm…thinking about how I'm glad I'm here. I'm glad I took the risk. If I hadn't…"

"Not now," he said softly. There was the slightest note of vulnerability in his tone. However, it was absent when he spoke again. "You are still too loquacious for my tastes. I shall have to change that." His free arm wound around her body, just beneath her breasts, securing her tightly against him. "Now, not another word except the ones I approved. If you say anything else, I'll have to punish you."

Hermione bit down hard on the inside of her lip. She wanted very badly to ask what the punishment would be, but she didn't dare. She would have to focus on just breathing. Once his hands got moving, she had no doubt that incoherency would follow.

* * *

It had – three times. She knew now that pleasure and punishment could be the same thing. He had held her against his warm, disciplined body and teased her so exquisitely with his hands that one orgasm had rendered her boneless, two had her eyes rolling back and high-pitched, gasping cries being pulled out of her at an alarming volume, and on the third she thrashed so hard that she wound up laying on her back across his thighs by the time it ended.

She stared up at him dazedly, curls sticking to her sweaty skin as she panted and tried to regain her mental capacities. Hermione had never realized how many different ways there were to stimulate a lover just through touch. Lucius clearly had.

Each of the orgasms had felt slightly different; it was almost as if no two were the same. She wondered if it was also that way for men. Of course, it was much more difficult for them to experience multiple orgasms so she wasn't sure any of them really knew the sensation of one building upon the other.

He was smiling faintly down at her as he reached to brush a sodden curl out of her eyes. She was a little thrown by the warmth in his gaze. There was such contentment there in spite of the raging erection a few inches from her cheek. It seemed like he had forgotten all about it – as much as a man could, anyhow.

_That was what I was going to do to you next had the condoms not arrived._ His fingers traced the gentle curve of her cheek. His face had taken on that look a man sometimes got when he wanted to kiss a woman and wasn't bothering to disguise it. _You said that today we are penned in...so there's no rush… _

She smiled up at him. _In that case, you won't mind if I go do something else for a while? _She was just teasing him, of course, and wouldn't dream of leaving him in this state, not after the way he'd just scrambled her brains, but she couldn't resist. She started to rise from the firm pillow of his quadriceps as if she was going to leave the bed. Hermione made it halfway up before his hand clamped in her hair and halted her.

_I very much mind. You won't be doing anything except me._ His other hand joined the first and he pulled her to her knees. He didn't pull hard and it didn't truly hurt, but there was no mistaking the fact that he would keep her there by force if he had to. It might have bothered her if she didn't know that there were few places she'd rather be at this moment.

His left hand relinquished its hold on her hair, only to snake behind her thigh and lift. He deposited her leg astride his so that she straddled him. Then he pushed against the back of her neck, his fingers still tangled in her mess of curls at the base of her skull. It pressed her flush against him, her breasts against his chest and his neglected erection branding hotly into her abdomen.

She felt as if she could burn up just from the way his eyes roved over her face. Merlin, he was beautiful when his chin was tilted up in something other than arrogance. They sat that way for a few minutes, each taking in the other's expression.

Then his patience evaporated. He raised his lips to hers and kissed her. She felt his hand flex, tightening in her curls. This wasn't like any kiss he'd given her before. He kissed her like she was the answer to everything, like she alone could fill whatever void existed in him.

She had never expected him to be so passionate. Yet another way in which she showed her bias and naiveté; snakes could devour their prey whole, couldn't they? It wasn't in their nature to do things half way. It was all or nothing once they made up their minds.

Lucius had clearly sorted his. She was breathless; he was demanding but exhilarating, spurring her to rise and meet the crest of his passion. Her eyes fluttered open for a moment when he dropped his hands to her rear and pressed her against him. His hips moved in an agitated spasm. He wasn't even trying to control himself. That was what she had wanted all along, but it was almost too much; she could feel the sharp nip of his teeth on her lips and knew that if his mind became too fogged, he would bite hard enough to draw blood. That was generally the sort of thing they were trying to avoid.

Oh, but those little bites felt so good! The little unexpected frisson of pain made her tremble with something she didn't quite understand. So did the sense of animalistic urgency that seemed to have overtaken him; he lifted his mouth from hers to release a soft groan and then she was tilting to the side. Hermione let out a small, alarmed cry and threw her arms around his shoulders.

He was reaching for the condoms, heedless of the tangle of woman in his lap. She clung to him and after a fumbled moment she was righted again. This time she kissed him, rolling her hips to grind against his throbbing cock, and the moan he released into her mouth was one of the most erotic things she had ever experienced.

His hands locked on her hips and in a flex of his arms, he separated their closely molded bodies. She knew that he needed the room to attend to important matters but she didn't want to relinquish the contact. Leaning forward, she rained open-mouthed kisses over his collarbones and chest. He was trying valiantly to apply the condom in spite of her attentions and the inability to see what he was doing. However, the press of her lips and teeth against his nipple proved to be too much. His hand slipped.

"Fuck," he lamented in a tense whisper. "That one's useless."

She looked down. It was no wonder he hadn't been able to manage it; he had about two inches of space in which to maneuver and didn't have any visual confirmation. It was her fault. Thankfully, they had a ready supply and her overeager mauling of his torso (had she really left those marks?) wouldn't cost them anything except a few more seconds.

Lucius looked as though those seconds were equivalent to death. Until she wrapped her hand around his cock, anyway; then the pained frustration in his face melted away. She stroked the burgeoning steel, amazed at how silken it felt and how thick and substantial he was in her small fist. He throbbed persistently, pushing against the firm circle of her hand. It was just one more indicator of how vehemently aroused he was.

"Hermione," he forced out between heavy breaths. "Need…"

She knew what he needed. This time she reached for the condoms. Then she took his wand from where it lay on the mattress and cast the necessary spell, momentarily too drugged with endorphins to know whose it was. It didn't really matter; it worked and a few seconds later she was tossing away the first condom and rolling the second down over his straining cock. One more spell and at last she could lower herself upon him, joining them together.

God, that was exquisite. She had never been so sensitive; she could feel every solitary millimeter of friction-laden flesh as he filled her. Her insides gave an involuntary clench. With a stifled groan, Lucius pulled her down on top of him, chest to chest, to plunder her lips.

His hands strayed once again to her backside, cupping and kneading as he began to thrust shallowly against her. Combined with the stroking of his tongue against hers, Hermione felt like they were two cells merging under some scientist's microscope. Soon they would just fuse right into one another…

That scattered thought made her reach for him mentally, wanting to coil in and around his mind, to feel the rush of that coupling, as well. He complied thoughtlessly, a cry wrenching out of him as they connected. His body tensed and a rise of his hips pressed him more deeply inside her.

Her nerve endings fairly exploded. Not only did that strong piston of his hips brush against an incredible place inside her, but she could feel him now, feel the concentrated ecstasy of his pleasure. It was so different from her own; hers was diffuse, coming from many different places and pooling around his questing cock, drawing ever closer in concentric, spasmodic circles. His was the exact opposite. It was so potently focused that it brought tears to her eyes. It blazed through, obliterating thought, slowly dispersing through the rest of him, to the fingers and toes and roots of the teeth in wide ripples…

She didn't know where she ended and he began. There was no concept of time, either. It could have been minutes or an hour. Nothing mattered but their rhythm, the roll of his hips and the answering rock of hers. She didn't want it to stop, not ever. She would be lost without the feeling of him buried inside her.

She knew she was making sounds because she could feel the air rushing in and out of her lungs and the vibration of her vocal chords, but she couldn't hear anything more than a pulsing white rush. Her sight, too, seemed drastically altered, blinking and pinwheeling in fantastic slashes of color, his eyes the brightest blue she had ever seen or perhaps imagined.

The sensation when orgasm began defied any conventional definition. She could feel the rapture circling, his flashing out and hers pulling in, like particles in a nuclear centrifuge spinning ever closer. In seconds they would collide. In seconds they would release every ounce of energy their fragile bodies contained.

Again she knew she was shouting, but she couldn't hear it. She could only feel the expansion of her chest and the violent contraction of her diaphragm as the air rushed out. There was one agonizing pause, like a game-winning shot sitting upon the rim of the basket, waiting to be tilted in or out by gravity and chance, and then…

Cataclysm. Everything exploded. Colors burst in mad shapes and waves behind her eyes. His orgasm was layered on top of hers; she felt the hard, ravaging spasms and clutched on to him tightly. It wasn't at all like hers. That she could pay attention to, because it was so shocking.

The shock lasted only a moment. After it passed, her mind reeled with the reflections of pleasure that ricocheted between them. Everything was a mirror; the grating pleasure of his thrust was the rubbing ache of her slide. The steady clench of her orgasm was the excruciating throb and burst of his. They were simple creatures, different yet the same. They were a dichotomy of flesh.

She wasn't sure when it ended – if it ended. Her brain still floundered. The pleasure inside her pulsed at a level that she almost couldn't believe was real. This was a dream. This was all a dream and she was lying beside Lucius still asleep. But if she was, did she really want to wake up?

Time was a meaningless thing as they lay in each other's arms. Shapes and colors were still reeling before Hermione's eyes and sound made no sense. But she could feel; she was so in-tune with her senses that it was overwhelming. His skin was so hot, and so slick with sweat, and full of his scent…she felt _enveloped_ in him.

Her arm was heavy when she moved it and the air she guided it through was like liquid, rippling infinitely away from her in a mirage of watercolors. Dimly she knew something wasn't right but she couldn't reel in her thoughts enough to care. All that mattered was that Lucius was curled against her.

* * *

She woke some time later and the first thing she realized was that she had regained her ability to process auditory input. That had been the strangest thing earlier; in her mind she knew sounds were being emitted, and she was sure her ears were working fine, but something was quite off in the part of her brain that made sense of such things. It hadn't been alarming at the time. It was in hindsight

She did understand what was being said now, only a few feet away. She also understood that the speaker was not very happy.

"I expect this from _her, _Lucius, but not from you. These are things that twentysomethings do. You're forty-five. _Forty-five_! Let that sink in."

"Tiresias--"

"No. I expect better of you, Lucius. Did you ever _think_ of what it could do to you when you're on seven other medications?"

"Smythe, I have _no_ idea what you're talking about!" Lucius was becoming agitated now; Hermione suspected that he did not respond to reproachment particularly well. But honestly, what _was_ Smythe ranting about?

"I'm talking about the two of you using recreational drugs! How else do people wind up unconscious and unresponsive in their beds, to the point that their house elves are afraid they're going to die?"

Hermione's eyes widened. What on earth? They had done no such thing.

Smythe went on, utterly incensed at their supposed recklessness. "What was it? Tell me now. Heroin? LSD? Illegal potions? You can become addicted, you know!"

Lucius looked absolutely gobsmacked. He blinked and shook his head.

"Tiresias, we didn't use anything."

"You can't lie to me. I checked everything and I mean everything. The alterations in your neurotransmitters are consistent with either a very strong opioid or LSD."

"I don't even know what a bloody neurotransmitter is," Lucius returned. "If I don't know what it is, why would I seek to alter it?"

"Don't play dumb with me. These things don't happen by accident. I swear to you, Lucius, if I _ever_ catch you doing this again…good God, you could have overdosed!"

"We didn't do anything," Hermione spoke up. She sat up in bed, determined to take some of the heat off Lucius. "Honestly, we really didn't."

She had forgotten that she was nude and the sheet slipped down. There was a brief moment of embarrassed panic, but then she remembered that both men in the room had seen her naked already. Plus, Lucius was standing there without a stitch of clothing on and it didn't seem to bother him at all.

Smythe turned to her, a retort ready on his lips, but for some reason it died. His eyes narrowed slightly.

"You had sex while mentally linked." He said it bluntly, without preamble or any obvious reason for the sudden deduction.

Hermione's eyes flashed to Lucius. It was true, they had, but no one knew about the Vow and Smythe wasn't psychic…was he? In their silence, Smythe went on.

"You saw all manners of colors and shapes and impossible things. Sound and time were distorted. You felt like you were melting together, losing your own identities. Are any of these accurate?"

Lucius's arms unfolded from their position across his chest. That was a tell; he, too, had experienced those things. Hermione wasn't alone. Was Smythe inferring that sex with a mind-link, like the kind they'd just had, could cause all those bizarre experiences?

"Yes," she said at last. "You're exactly right. How did you know?"

Smythe pointed. "Your chest."

Hermione looked down and her eyes widened. The runes Lucius had drawn earlier were visible, red and raised above her right breast.

"I saw his, but didn't notice yours until you sat up. I'm no rune expert, but I have read that when two people share certain runes, it is possible for them to connect mentally."

"Wait…_his?_" she asked. "Share…runes…?"

"Yes," Tiresias nodded. He pointed once again – this time at Lucius's rear end. Lucius twisted slightly, confused about what the healer was indicating, and in doing so he put it in her direct view. She pressed her hand to her mouth. At some point during their psychedelic lovemaking, she had drawn the runes on his arse!

"It makes sense. When he was ill, you knew what he wanted without him speaking. You have a mental bond," the healer concluded.

"So…" Lucius began cautiously, concealing his shock, "what exactly does it mean, that we were connected during sex?"

"Let me ask you this. Do you know what time it is?"

"I suppose it was…about six thirty when we woke up?" Lucius considered carefully. "I would guess that it is about noon."

"It's early evening. 16:42, to be exact."

"What? There is no way we were asleep that long."

"Not asleep – in a drugged stupor."

"I think we've already established that there were no drugs involved other than the ones I am _supposed_ to take," Lucius muttered blackly.

"And now I believe you." Smythe sat down on the chaise. "Sex with a mental link can impact the brain the same way a mind-altering drug would. It scrambles your neurotransmitters. Essentially…it's a drug 'trip'."

Lucius frowned and looked at Hermione before returning his gaze to the healer. "And the problem with that is…what, exactly?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow. That wasn't the response she expected from Lucius. Then again, he had grown up during a time of heavy experimental drug use, muggle and wizard alike. Maybe he'd done a little tripping of his own.

"The problems are myriad. You can experience a crash, depression, withdrawal symptoms, addiction, and in some cases permanent damage. Do you think everyone in spell damage wards were hit by Confundus Charms or victims of faulty obliviations?" he said caustically. "The majority of sex magic is illegal for a reason. People don't always become addicted or end up drooling in the hospital, but even if they don't the link can temporarily cause impaired judgment, hallucinations, seizures, aggression…" he was most definitely eying the bruises on Lucius's chest. Hermione didn't have the courage to tell him she'd put them there _before_ they really got going.

"Frankly," Tiresias said, "I think you two are lucky that neither of you felt the urge to bite. And evidently you had the presence of mind to put on the condom." He gestured at the floor with a jerk of his foot.

Lucius had the grace to color. She couldn't blame him for not going to the loo to dispose of the thing; movement simply wasn't an option after that encounter. With a slight cough, Hermione tossed him his wand. His perceptions were right again; he caught it easily and banished the condom off the floor with mortification plain upon his face.

Smythe shook his head like an exasperated parent and stood up. "I have no problem with the two of you having sex. In fact, I'm deliriously happy that you are. But you can't ignore the fact that you need to take special precautions. You could have infected her this morning, Lucius. It was reckless."

Hermione saw the expression on his face grow darker, morphing from embarrassment to misery.

"It's my fault," she said sharply, provoked by the blunt dagger Smythe had just driven into Lucius. It wasn't fair for the blame to be placed solely on the blond wizard. "I initiated it."

"It doesn't matter. You're both smarter than this. Don't risk it again." He picked up his robe and headed for the floo. Pausing, he said, "Just rest now. Call if you have any residual problems."

Then he was through the floo and gone, leaving them to stare at one another in shock.

* * *

Eventually he came to sit on the bed. His wand was clasped in his hand and even when she cautiously moved toward him to rub a comforting hand over his back, he didn't react. Smythe's words had really bothered him. It was true that they had dodged a bullet; even one errant bite could have been disastrous. But the important thing was that they were fine. She was fine. She hoped Lucius understood that didn't allow guilt to eat him alive.

She kissed the masculine curve of muscle on his shoulder. His skin jumped slightly; he was in another world. With a sigh, Hermione wrapped her arms around him. After a moment he placed his palm over her wrist. In another moment he moved it away.

"We are playing a game," he said softly.

Hermione blinked, lifting her cheek from where it rested against his back. "What?"

"We are playing House." He shook his head and the ends of his hair tickled her. "Like children."

She didn't bother to point out that whatever House they were playing, it was decidedly un-childlike. That wasn't the point. The point was…everything they had avoided up to this point was about to come out.

"What's wrong with that?" she asked quietly.

"It is an illusion."

"You're right," she sighed. "It's a fantasy of normalcy and perfection and happiness." She thought back to all the games of House she had played with her friends before she had ever known she was a witch. There had been many happy afternoons in fake plastic kitchens or playground hideouts.

"Exactly. All fantasies end." He carefully unwound her arms from his torso. "And we should end this one before it puts you at greater risk or causes us any more pain."

Her jaw clenched in indignation. "You mean before it causes _you_ any more pain?" she demanded.

"I am not thinking only of myself. You have a life. I don't fit into it."

"I think that's for me to decide, Lucius," she retorted.

He turned to face her. "You aren't thinking it through. The best we could hope for is something covert. You would have to live a life of constant secrecy and worry. If it became public knowledge that we…" he sighed heavily, "it would ruin you. I have no status to speak of and I am well beyond caring, but you…you are a heroine, a muggleborn champion. If they know that you are with me..."

"I don't care what other people think," Hermione stubbornly negated.

He tilted his head slightly, and his eyes, when they met hers, were shrewd. "Really? Then what of your friends, Potter and Weasley? Do you think they would be ecstatic to know what is going on here?"

She had to close her eyes. Those words were like a sock to the gut. She loved Harry and Ron, but they were not known for their equanimity. Nor were they known for their capacity to forgive. Lucius was a demon to them and probably always would be.

If she told them, the first thing they would do would be to suspect foul play on Lucius's part. They would use every ounce of their influence, which was understandably daunting, to try to prove it. As Aurors, they could make his life hell; they would use anything they could find to try to convict him. If they couldn't make anything stick their focus would turn to Hermione – was she mental? Having some sort of breakdown? Using an illegal potion? If no diminished capacity could be proven, then…

Well, that was the part she really feared. Then they would draw the conclusion that she had somehow 'gone to the dark side'. The assumption that she chose a Death Eater over them would follow. In their eyes she would be a traitor and that would be the end of the friendship. She would be as good as dead to some of the people she cared about the most.

Hermione felt like someone had placed her heart in a vice and was gradually tightening it. The trouble was that she cared about Lucius, too. More than she should. More than she ever thought possible.

"You know what you never have to do when you're playing House?" she asked, looking up into his eyes.

"What?"

"Choose between two awful things."

His lips twitched minutely. Then Lucius reached out to touch her, his fingertips brushing tenderly across her cheek. "I don't think for a moment that I am the less awful choice."

The vice tightened another turn at his touch. It was so gentle. So perfect. She squeezed her eyes shut and a tear slipped from the corner of one. He sighed and wiped it away with the pad of his thumb.

"I'm not trying to hurt you, Hermione. I'm…" he looked down at the sheets, "try to contain your laughter, if you can, but I'm trying to do the right thing."

She sniffled. "Why would I laugh at that?"

"I assumed you thought it was impossible."

"No," she smiled weakly, "just improbable."

He smiled back for a brief second. Then he leaned forward to gather her against his chest.

_Men like me are dangerous._

She inhaled his scent. _You promised you'd never hurt me and I believe it._

_That is not the only hazard._

She looked up at him, a question in her watery eyes.

"I have nothing to lose, Hermione. Nothing is more dangerous than that." He kissed her forehead and then slid off the bed, heading for the loo.

She heard the water run and finally released the breath she'd been unintentionally holding. Hermione collapsed backwards onto the bed. Oh, Lucius…the poor thing thought he had nothing left to lose.

_Except your heart, you fool_, she thought. And she was sure he heard her, but there was only silence…silence and the memory of colors that would only exist when her mind was locked to his in the throes of passion.

* * *

She regained her courage about ten minutes later. Lucius had spoken some tough and necessary words, but the true indicator of how he felt was the fact that he was still here. He had done nothing to remove her, either. If he truly wanted to stop playing House, she had no doubt that he would do something about it.

With a steadying breath, she walked toward the loo. Upon the opening of the door he turned and pushed his sopping hair out of his face. He'd charmed the hose to levitate so the water cascaded down on him like a regular shower. She was about to open her mouth and protest on behalf of the floor when she noticed that the stones seemed to wick the water away the moment it hit.

But what was she doing looking at the stones? Lucius was wet and naked in front of her, most endearingly wiping water out of his eyes. He gestured with his hand. Smiling, Hermione went to join him.

He pulled her under the water without hesitation. It took a while to soak through her riotous curls. As she waited, she cautiously ran her hands over the marks she had left on his chest. There were five of them, little purple crescents.

"I didn't realize I was…"

"It's fine," he murmured. "I liked it. Besides, I left one on you, too." He pushed some of her hair aside and cupped the side of her neck. She could feel a very slight pain where he touched and bit her lips.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"For?"

"I didn't think before I initiated the bond. I shouldn't have been so careless. I had no idea what it could do. I never meant to put you in that position, where you would have to be worried about…"

His other hand joined the first on the other side of her neck and he tilted her head up so she could meet his eyes.

"It is no one's fault. It was a mistake we would have made sooner or later and we are fortunate that everything turned out all right."

Hermione nodded.

"And you have to admit," he continued, "it was bloody fantastic."

"I'm not so sure that's the word I would use to describe it." A grin had come to her face of its own accord. It _had_ been fantastic, but at the same time it was terrifying because she had felt like she was dissolving, literally and figuratively.

"Regardless, it's probably best if we don't do it again."

"I couldn't agree more." Hermione sighed as she reached for her shampoo. "Poor Jo-Jo, we must have given her quite a scare."

"Yes. I suppose we ought to…" Lucius grimaced, "apologize to her."

She shook her head mildly at his disgruntlement. The room was filling with the scent of apples as she lathered her hair. It was impossible to miss the way Lucius drew in deep inhalations of the steamy, fragrant air; the scent was intrinsically comforting to him. When she stepped forward to rinse, he helped, running his fingers through her hair and brushing bubbles away from her eyes.

Conditioner followed, and he let her do that on her own. His eyes were slightly amused at the way she had to persistently yank at the tangles where the curls had merged together. At last they were manageable and that task was done.

Lucius initiated the mutual washing session that came next. He had the right idea, though, kissing her while their sudsy bodies rubbed together most agreeably. Whatever their squirming missed, their roving hands got. It was then, in a soapy swipe over his buttocks, that she felt the raised marks of the runes.

She looked up at him as her hands traced the characters like Braille upon the white paper of his skin.

"What did you write?" he questioned.

"The same thing you wrote on me."

His brow furrowed slightly, but he was quiet.

"Are you angry?" Hermione asked. His silence was a little unnerving.

"I am not pleased to have been marked…for obvious reasons."

Oh, hell. She hadn't even thought of that. He'd been branded once before and it only led to despair. But if he could experience resentment over someone doing it to him, how could he guiltlessly do it to someone else? There was some kind of disconnect in his brain when it came to that.

"Do you think I was pleased?" she challenged.

"I reckon not." He reached up for the showerhead, breaking its levitation, and began to rinse her back.

She wasn't going to ask him why he had done it. That was territory that was still too shaky and she wasn't sure that the prospective answer wouldn't terrify her, if he even knew what it was. To ask that question now would be like walking on top of a lava flow that wasn't completely cooled yet; at any moment the tarry foundation could give way and deliver her to a pocket of boiling earth soup.

It was all so tenuous. She knew with every rational part of her, and even some of the irrational ones, that what they had hovered on the edge of a blade. Every force that existed was endeavoring to push them over except for their own stubbornness – and perhaps denial. Or was it jaded optimism?

He had been right earlier. What could they hope for? Secret liaisons? A personal life full of lies? She knew he wasn't as averse as her to lies, but she could deduce with little hesitation that he was running out of energy for deception. He bore two great secrets constantly – the HIV and his authorship of the books. That was exhausting enough. To add a furtive affair with someone half his age, someone that defied reason…it could put him over the edge.

And Hermione…she could lie to Ron and Harry, but it would be difficult. In spite of their numerous attempts to prove otherwise, neither man was stupid. They would figure out that she was seeing someone and her avoidance of introducing him would raise a red flag. Her lips pursed slightly; maybe she was giving them more credit than they deserved.

Prime among her best friends' abilities was a capacity for obliviousness. As much as Lucius's ability to foresee her behavior bothered her, it meant that he _understood_ her. He comprehended the way her mind worked and why most of the time. The same couldn't be said for Harry and Ron.

They loved her and that was never in doubt, but even in their closest moments they didn't truly know her. When she had a strong reaction to something it always seemed to stun them. She had endured their little 'Hermione is mental' glances more times than she could count. To a more perceptive person, like Luna, for instance, her behavior was rational and even expected.

She had been friends with them for nearly a decade, but she was still a mystery to them. A certain amount of that could be ascribed to the general misunderstanding that occurred between men and women. However, the rest…she sighed. There was a distinct and not entirely bothersome possibility that if she did engage in a clandestine relationship with Lucius, they wouldn't even notice. It would be hurtful, but convenient.

Still, secrecy just wasn't palatable. She bristled at the thought of having to conceal her affections. She had never been the kind of person who made excuses for what and who she liked. It would be difficult to start now.

It was impossible; the media would assassinate both of them if they dared to go public. Their friends and family would either think they were insane or detest them. She was forgetting that Lucius had Draco to consider, just as she had Harry and Ron, and Draco had never demonstrated the warmest of feelings for her. It was safe to say that he mattered as much to Lucius as the other two-thirds of the trio mattered to her.

She leaned forward against his chest. The warm water washed over them in a comforting wave, the exact juxtaposition to the rapids in their minds. More was said in silence than in all the words they could utter.

Hermione sighed. It was Friday night. Tomorrow was Saturday, the day of Paolo's party and the last day of her 'vacation'. On Sunday the fantasy had to end. On Sunday she had to go back to her flat, her job, and her life – and she had never been so reluctant to live it.

* * *

End note: As I've said a few times before throughout this story, don't assume things based on this chapter. Coming up in the next chapter: Paolo's party and their last night together…or is it?


	19. Chapter 19

That night they kissed. They kissed and kissed and kissed, twining together in the bedclothes, sadness invading their embrace. They kissed to chase the sadness away but in doing so it seemed only to feed the ache. Yet they didn't stop.

Eventually they slept. It was amazing how tired they were after spending half the day unconscious. The thing was that their minds had never rested. They had reeled on, caught in the rush of serotonin and dopamine, so awake that their bodies couldn't handle the strain. Now the high was gone and they had crashed back to earth.

They slept until the sun was high in the sky, recovered from its nap behind yesterday's rain clouds. Even after waking they lay there for a long time. The bed had become their sanctuary, the place where they could ignore the world and their circumstances. It was the center of their carefully structured charade.

Eventually Lucius sighed. It was a heavy exhalation, one laden with stress.

"Are you nervous?" she asked, tracing figure eights on his chest.

"Well, it is not as if I frequent muggle gatherings." He turned his head to look at her. "What will it be like?"

"Probably just lots of talking and food. Maybe some dancing or games. What are pureblood parties like?"

He snorted. "Lots of cognac, cigars, and stale conversation with vapid people you don't even like. Sometimes there are waltzes. That's a little better. At least you can move and look down your partner's dress."

She couldn't help but chuckle; his words conjured an image straight out of a period movie. "Waltzes? Really?"

"Oh, yes, with dance cards and everything."

"Has anyone informed the purebloods that it's no longer the 19th century?"

He shook his head. "Most still wish it was. Though it's not as if I have any idea what's going on in pureblood society anymore; I'm a social pariah."

"I'll never understand how people can be so fickle."

"Prison more or less ruins a person's status no matter what stratum they inhabit, I think."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "They all believed the same things you did. I'd bet that some still do. They're miserable hypocrites."

"At any rate I am not missed and I do not miss them in return," he shrugged.

"Really?"

"Really." He toyed with one of her curls. "It was not as if they were my friends."

She nodded against his chest. That much she was sure of.

"I suppose you will have to dress me," he said. "I don't know what one would wear to a muggle party."

"Your clothes are fine." A thought occurred to her. "Unless you want to go shopping for something new."

"Should I?"

"It's up to you." She smiled a little at how anxious he was.

"You are supposed to tell me yes or no."

"As if you'd listen."

That made his lips quirk upwards for the first time since they'd awakened.

"I would listen. I'm sure you've noticed that I don't like being told what to do, but I dislike looking like a fool even more."

"You wouldn't look like a fool in your own clothes."

"Then why suggest I shop for something new?"

She rolled her eyes at his over-analysis. "All right, I confess, it's because I am unhealthily curious what you would look like in current muggle clothing."

"Draco has taken to wearing such things occasionally," he shrugged. "Much of the younger generation has."

"I wasn't talking about Draco, I was talking about you." Hermione watched him closely, hoping that he would cave to the idea now that she had confessed its source. She really _did_ want to see him in muggle clothing. She had the feeling he would look devastating in a well-cut, expensive suit.

His thumb rubbed absently along her forearm. "All right. But you had better not put me in anything ridiculous. I will know and you will be duly chastised."

* * *

It turned out that he looked devastating in just about anything. She and the store owner, the same woman who had dressed her the day Lucius was missing, were dumbfounded. He was standing there in a suit, grey with a subtle pinstripe, and a blue dress shirt underneath it. What made it incredible was the trousers; they were cut _perfectly_, and when he turned in a circle at Hermione's behest, she heard the other woman mutter, "Dio mio…"

My God was right. It was warm outside, but she was fanning herself with a rumpled magazine for an entirely different reason. She was rather enjoying subjecting Lucius to another childhood game – dress-up.

"Is that a look of horror?" Lucius asked glibly. That was as insecure as he got.

"No," the two women responded at the same time. Neither elaborated. He shrugged and went to try the next thing they had picked.

The owner, Valentina, shook her head. "He would look good in a burlap sack," she said under her breath.

"I know," Hermione agreed. Oh, boy, did she know.

Valentina appeared shifty-eyed for a moment. Then she leaned over and whispered fervently, "Does he have any brothers?"

* * *

Lucius surprised her and purchased a few things. It was nothing he could wear to the party, but even he knew when he looked good in the unfamiliar clothing. The two salivating women might have had something to do with it.

Hermione smiled. Poor Valentina – Lucius had no available relatives that she knew of, but she had had an errant thought. Healer Smythe didn't wear a ring on his left hand. Oh, Merlin, she was turning into Molly Weasley.

The reminder of Ron made her wince. Then it melted away into a slightly harder expression; though he had claimed in his letter that he would come see her on Saturday, there had been no follow-up. The git was probably hoping she had forgotten and was certainly naïve enough to believe that she had.

Regardless of what happened tonight and tomorrow and whatever emotional upheaval she was going to subject herself to, she intended to break up with Ron. He had never for even one moment made her feel the way Lucius did in a week. Yes, Ron was safe, but as many women before her had discovered, safe did not necessarily equal passionate, exciting, or beautiful. A small part of her mind knew that in a perverse sort of irony, Ron must not find _her_ particularly passionate, exciting, or beautiful if he consistently chose auror training over her.

Breaking up with him could be a disaster. Ron was beyond hot-headed. He rarely thought before he spoke even when he was in a good mood; there was no hope for him if he was upset. She wanted things to be amicable but she just knew there would be hurtful words exchanged. Ron was the type that couldn't accept blame for something without prolonged thought on the subject. His initial reaction was always to blame it on someone else. No matter how many sound, logical arguments she presented to him, they wouldn't get through for a least a week – and that was her being both generous and optimistic.

Harry wouldn't be happy about it, either. However, Harry had once admitted that he wasn't quite sure what kept her and Ron together. He had been heavily drunk at the time; Harry would never talk about his best friend that way when his mind was clear. But, as they said, _in vino veritas._

More than anything, Lucius had shown her that she needed to change. She needed to change herself, her life, and everything. Since the war she had been soldiering on, doing everything that was expected of her and what felt safe and familiar, but that was all. She hadn't done anything that she _wanted_. Every dream had been put on hold, every brash confidence discarded in favor of settling for what was right in front of her – because after nearly dying, seeing so many others die, and the year of unspeakable stress, what was right in front of her seemed like paradise.

She hadn't seen the difference between convenience and true happiness. The two things were supposed to coexist. Sometimes they did, but neither of her cases fell into that category. Ron was convenient but didn't make her happy, not as a boyfriend. On the other hand, there was _nothing_ convenient about Lucius and he made her dangerously happy. It figured.

It was this prolonged rumination that allowed Lucius to find her several minutes later, standing there in her knickers with three dresses laid out on the bed. He walked into the room and embraced her from behind, his large, warm hands tickling across her stomach.

"I think you should go to the party just like this," he smirked.

"Only if you dress to match."

"I would like to _undress _to match." His fingers trailed along the top edge of her knickers. She pinched his wrist gently.

"Lucius, there are only 25 minutes until the party."

He pinched the smooth skin of her abdomen in retaliation. "That is more than enough time. I can just bend you over the bed right there and…"

An involuntary shiver coursed through Hermione's body. It felt good to be held this way by him, her back to his chest and his arms around her. She was having a hard time preventing her mind from picturing exactly what he had suggested. She would have thought that their dismal conversation last night might have lowered the flame of their chemistry.

Not a chance. Encouraged by the fact that she didn't immediately turn him down, Lucius brushed her hair aside and kissed the spot just below her ear. His other hand trailed up and cupped her breast through the molded fabric of her bra. Merlin, she had no willpower with him.

"Okay," she breathed anxiously, "but I don't want to be late, so be quick about it!"

He laughed and muttered, "That is the first time I've had that request, but your wish is my command." With that, he hoisted her into his arms and quite literally flung her onto the bed. Hermione squealed and giggled at the same time, secretly delighted at his manhandling. Then he descended upon her, all lips and hands, and coherent thought deserted her.

* * *

She still wasn't entirely lucid twenty minutes later when Lucius practically herded her out the door. He seemed to have recovered his wits, though his cheeks were pink and an uncharacteristic little smile was firmly fastened on his lips. Her mind slowly assembled itself as they walked. That was when she noticed. Hermione stopped in her tracks halfway down the path and turned to him with a horrified look on her face.

"Oh my God, I'm not wearing knickers!"

He grinned wickedly. "I know."

She glared at him. "I have to go back!"

"No, you don't."

"I _cannot_ go to this party with no underwear on! If I forget to cross my legs…"

He raised his eyebrows. "The answer is simple: don't forget to cross your legs."

"I'm going back. You don't have to wait for me. Make my excuses to Paolo and I'll be a few minutes behind you."

"I'm not the one who cares about being late," he pointed out smugly. "And if it makes you feel any better, I'm not wearing knickers either."

Hermione blinked at him. Where was this playfulness coming from? She shook her head, agitated.

"That's socially acceptable for men, sort of. I can't… I don't _do_ things like this!"

Lucius reached out and took her hand, lifting it to his lips to kiss. "Do it for me. I'll be able to survive the muggles better if I can think about how you're knickerless and I could ambush you at any time."

"Don't you _dare_, Lucius, that is absolutely not acceptable behavior and--" she cut herself off, realizing that he was just trying to wind her up. His smirk said so.

"Go back if you must. I'll wait here."

Hermione looked back at the villa. It loomed scenically in the distance. Then she glanced at Lucius; he loomed much closer, examining his nails. He clearly expected her to go back and get her knickers.

"No. I don't need them," she shrugged. One of his brows inched up. "And who knows, maybe I'll be the one thinking about how _you're_ knickerless and could be ambushed at any time." She crossed her arms and resumed walking, purposely brushing against him as she went past.

He was still for a moment. Then he began to walk, too, his pace steady. He caught up with her easily

_It may be a bit early to show your ace, don't you think?_ he asked.

Hermione smiled to herself. _We'll see._ As long as they were playing games, a little seduction wasn't out of place.

* * *

As they approached the end of the Briatore road, Lucius fell quiet. He wouldn't admit to it, but she was certain that he was incredibly nervous. She felt a buzzing discomfort in her gut and intuition told her it was his nerves being shared between the runes' bond. That was what it was for, after all. She took his hand and squeezed it.

_You'll be fine. It's like any other party._

He nodded and gave a brief squeeze in return, before extracting his hand. She didn't take any offense at the action. He didn't strike her as the hand-holding type. That same intuition told her that he was grateful for the gesture, though.

_I should have done a shot of firewhiskey before we left_, he thought wryly.

She resisted the urge to lecture him on how alcohol was not a good coping mechanism. She was a little hypervigilant with that and he was only kidding.

_It was firewhiskey or me,_ she jabbed.

_I made the right choice, then._

Damn right he had. Hermione couldn't control a slight surge of smugness. It was quickly replaced a moment later when Lucius leaned close to her ear and whispered,

"A man could just as easily become addicted to you."

She blushed and rearranged her hair, flustered by his honeyed voice. Point Lucius. His smile was charming but calculating as he held open the gate to Paolo and Elisabetta's sprawling yard. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Long was an understatement. Dinner alone had taken nearly three hours and had contained so many courses that she felt like she might explode. She couldn't help but eat too much; everything was so delicious! Lucius had eaten more sparingly, but well for him. There had also been a liberal amount of wine, three glasses of which enabled both of them to loosen up.

The ease with which Lucius could talk to people amazed her. He had nothing in common with these muggles, yet he could carry a conversation seamlessly. She tried to imagine just how smart he had to be to remember all the lies he was telling and keep them consistent as the conversation shifted.

Pretty damned smart. She would have become confused after two concurrent lies. She suspected he was enjoying himself as he completely and utterly fabricated his life story to fit the questions the muggle guests asked him. The only thing he didn't lie about was Draco. Hermione was surprised that he didn't fudge that, too, but then realized that in Italian Draco was not all that strange of a name.

As Hermione had had a muggle upbringing, it was easy for her to respond to the questions that were directed at her. Those questions were numerous. No one had ever been so interested in her life, except for maybe Viktor, bless him.

At present she was with a group of women, most of whom were a little older than her but not by much. She had no idea who was related to who and by what. It didn't matter; they were already treating her like a sister, telling her gossip about people she didn't even know and asking her about 'Luciano' and how she knew him.

She didn't know what Lucius was telling the men he spoke with, in regards to her. Perhaps they weren't like the women and didn't ask. She noticed more than one set of wandering eyes, though, so she doubted it. She would have to talk to him later about corroborating their stories. A small smile graced her lips; she felt like a spy.

As the hour grew late, the wine flowed more freely and someone began to play music. Couples and groups began to dance, while some others lingered on the sidelines, smoking and talking. At last Hermione was able to break free from the cluster of women. She hadn't expected to spend the entire party glued to Lucius's side, but the sheer number of talkative people here was a little overwhelming.

She sat at one of the now-abandoned tables. It was nice to have a moment alone, and to have a moment to appreciate the beauty around her. The sky was clear and star-strewn and for the first time, she thought she saw the color that was referred to as midnight blue. The land that surrounded the house was sprawling and fragrant. Makeshift torches had been set up to light the gathering. Garlands of paper flowers had been strung up on the fence and the murmur of conversation and laughter was a pleasing lull. She closed her eyes and just listened to it.

A moment later a warm hand came to rest on her shoulder. She opened her eyes, feeling very relaxed. It was Lucius. He, too, appeared quite relaxed as he swung into the seat next to her.

"Circe's tit, these people can talk," he sighed.

She gave him a sidelong glance. "You seemed to be holding your own."

"It's easy to talk out of your arse." His lips rose in a smirk. "Slytherin specialty."

"I'll bet," she smirked back.

He reached over and took the wine glass that was loosely clasped in her left hand. His fingers trailed briefly over hers; he hadn't forgotten their little game.

"What are you drinking?" he asked. "I'll be a gentleman and refill it for you."

"Are you trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?" she responded flirtatiously.

"I don't have to get you drunk to do that." He smiled knowingly. It was so nice when he smiled. She wished he would do it more.

"I suppose not," Hermione shrugged, giving in to the truth. She let her hand wander casually to his thigh and stroked her fingers along it, scratching lightly with her nails. She felt the muscles beneath her palm twitch.

"Careful," he warned softly, very close to her ear.

"I'm always careful."

"Hmph," was all he said to that. Then, to her surprise, he leaned closer and placed a light kiss against her earlobe. "I suppose I'll have to improvise on your drink." He stood up, her wine glass in hand.

"Pinot noir," she said, just as he turned. He didn't acknowledge it but she was certain he'd heard. Hermione just sat there, slightly bemused, touching her earlobe where he had kissed it. It tingled.

* * *

Paolo stood with his wife, watching the party teem around them. It was turning out to be immensely successful. Everyone was full and tipsy and happy. He squeezed Elisabetta contentedly. His wife was distracted by something because she was slow to squeeze back.

"What are you thinking about, dearest?"

"Your friend Luciano and Miss Hermione." She lifted her chin to indicate where the aforementioned twosome was sitting.

He looked over. They were at an empty table, sitting close together; her hand was on his thigh and his was on her opposite wrist in the guise of taking her wine glass. From what he'd heard, both of them were playing their cards close to the chest, insisting that they were only friends. However, those were not the touches or the body language of friends.

"Do you think she's his mistress?" Elisabetta asked.

He watched the pair banter back and forth, exchanging smiles.

"No."

She looked back at him. "What makes you say that?"

"Just instinct."

"It's interesting. She is so much younger."

They both watched Luciano drop a gentle, seductive kiss on Hermione's ear. Then, when he retreated, Hermione's hand went automatically to the place his lips had been. She had a mildly dazed expression on her face.

"They're in love," his wife said.

He considered it…and found that he hoped she was right.

* * *

He had heard her, for he returned with the correct wine. He brought a glass of his own, as well. They sipped in silence for a few moments. Hermione contemplated him over the rim of her glass.

That pink flush had never faded from his cheeks. It was still there, as if he had just walked out of the villa on the hill after shagging her silly. She was sure the wine had something to do with it, but there was something more. His face was so relaxed. He had actually kissed her, however chastely, in front of all these people. True, they weren't of much consequence, but they hadn't displayed their strange relationship to anyone save for Jo-Jo. Poor Jo-Jo had no choice in the matter.

"So are you managing to enjoy yourself?" she asked, savoring the taste of the wine lingering on her tongue.

"I am. Muggles are delightfully rude."

She nudged him in the side with her elbow. "As if purebloods are any better."

"Well, most purebloods have the decency to cast a Muffliato before they talk about someone who is present a few yards away," he chuckled.

She had to smile. She'd witnessed the exact same thing in the circle of women. "Did you speak to…what was his name? Domenico?"

"Yes."

"And?"

He shrugged. "He is an architect, moved to Rome, married, had two children, divorced, married again, divorced, and is now a bitter old man – his words, not mine."

"He sounds lovely."

Lucius chuckled. Then he looked at her thoughtfully. He stared so long that Hermione started to feel slightly paranoid.

"What?"

He lifted his hand and grazed her cheek with the back of his knuckle. "Nothing."

_You're really laying it on thick, aren't you?_

His pale brow rose. _Shall I stop?_

Hermione drew in a breath. That small caress had set her heart racing in her chest and awakened every sensory receptor she had. She was becoming drunk in more ways than one. She knew she was being seduced by a master, and each gesture was designed to do this – to melt her.

_No, don't stop._

She had a funny feeling that whatever hovered behind the touches and looks and flirtatious banter was more than just a desire to bed her one last time. Again, it was that color in his cheeks…and the warmth in his eyes. He was an excellent actor, but even he couldn't force affection to beam serenely out at someone. That was one talent he'd never had. And wine or no wine…that affection was there.

She took another sip and then set her glass down. "Let's dance."

"I'm content to sit here." He looked at the area where couples had congregated and were now swaying to the mellow music.

"Are you a terrible dancer?" she challenged. "Is that your deep dark secret?"

"Of course not. I could do every dance necessary for life by the age of seven."

"And you're turning down a chance to show off?"

"Show off?" he asked innocently. "Do I strike you as that type?"

Hermione collapsed into giggles. He tried to keep a straight face, but couldn't quite manage it. Lucius took a sip of wine to negate the contagion of her laugh. A few moments later, when she got control of herself, she smiled up at him.

"Come on. I thought you liked dancing. You can look down my dress, remember?"

"Ah, yes. Well, in light of that, I can't refuse." He pushed back his chair and stood up, offering her his hand. "Dance with me, Hermione?"

* * *

At first she felt a little self-conscious molded against his body in front of so many people. It felt like everyone was watching. Then she realized she was being silly; the dance floor was, in reality, full of couples who only had eyes for one another. The only awareness for others was to make sure they didn't collide.

He was an excellent dancer. She wasn't a great one, but could manage; his steady guidance made her appear much better than she was. It felt wonderful to relax against him. His body felt so warm and solid, and his hand so sure against her lower back. She knew he had gone to that sensory place, the one where he was feeling and not thinking, and she tried to do the same.

Some people disliked slow dancing. She was – or had been – one of them. The close touch, the shared space, the quiet…it was too intimate for people who did not truly feel anything strong for one another. She thought she would feel differently with Ron, but he was so awkward that a slow dance was not an enjoyable experience. This, however…this was different. And if she was honest with herself, the reason she had pushed him into dancing was because she had the feeling it might be.

She leaned her cheek into Lucius's chest and let her eyes slip shut. He continued to guide them, his arm wrapping around her waist. The silence was comfortable as they moved but eventually Hermione was unable to keep her brain content with just the sway.

"So what do you think of muggle music?" she asked softly, tilting her chin up toward his ear. That put her nose right in the vicinity of the base of his neck and her train of thought was temporarily derailed as she realized how bloody _good_ he smelled.

"I have no problem with it," he murmured. _And you smell wonderful, as well. Like apples and sex._

Her eyes fell closed again. God. She was far outclassed in this game of seduction.

The song changed and she felt his hold loosen, as if he meant to let go. She reached back to keep his hand where it was.

"One more." Her ears tuned to a familiar string of notes. "This is a good song."

He pulled her in closer, bringing their hips flush against one another. "I will say this for muggle music…it is more sensual."

She couldn't agree more. She felt like the song was enveloping them, driving everything else away…and she imagined swaying with him without the barriers of their clothing. His lips would trail along her neck and his hands would slowly wander, tickling her skin…

_I think we need to go. You win._

She felt him smile against the crown of her head.

_You wanted one more dance._

And Hermione knew the wine was hitting her, because she held on to him for dear life, the world and her emotions spinning. At least, she hoped it was the wine…

* * *

She didn't know what excuse Lucius made to their hosts, but she did notice a brief glance exchanged between Paolo and his wife. Their chemistry had not stayed confined to their little dancing bubble. Others had noticed. Hermione didn't care; that was often the case with people who were…

Who were what? Compatible? Meant to be?

Thankfully, Lucius didn't give her time to get bogged down in thought. Inside the door to the villa he backed her into the wall and began to kiss her neck in exactly the way she had imagined. Softly, teasingly, with the occasional suck and dart of his tongue. His hand slid down her side and then around to cup her behind and press her against him.

Her breath left her. She couldn't seem to get enough air as he ravaged her neck. She wanted him so badly. It eclipsed everything else; she began to fumble with the buttons on his shirt, desperate for his skin, his scent…him.

As she struggled to dismantle his shirt, he raised his lips to hers. His kiss was achingly sensual. It seared through her, along with the taste of the wine on his tongue. It had to be the wine doing this to her…it had to be…

Hermione whimpered against his lips. He gave an answering sigh and lifted his free hand to cup her cheek. The unconscious stroke of his thumb along her jaw made her knees weak. Nearly blind with passion, she gave up on his shirt in favor of his trousers.

He didn't lift his lips from hers until her small hand found his cock. A low, sighing groan escaped him and he thrust forward against her grip, scoring her palm with the heat of his arousal. The warmth and cadence of his quickening breath as he bestowed his mouth upon her neglected ear drove her mad. She struggled to focus on pleasing him; his teeth and the tip of his tongue were worrying her earlobe so exquisitely…

"We need to get to the couch if you don't want to be up against the wall again," he whispered.

She didn't say what she was thinking – that she'd endure any wall if it meant making love to him – but he probably heard it, anyhow. Gently, he disengaged her hand and pulled her away from the wall. He led her across the villa, his other hand holding his loosened trousers up; she wished he would just let them fall. Nonetheless, their hand-in-hand walk felt curiously shy and new, like they were doing this for the first time and didn't yet know one another's bodies or the sound of the other's moans.

When they reached the couch, he finally let his trousers slide down his hips. They were gone after he toed off his shoes and socks. He also conquered the two buttons that had proven too much for her. Then he was completely nude, standing like some pale Adonis in a temple that had been built around him. His wand appeared in his hand and he waved it; she knew it was the spells. The only barrier left was her dress.

He sank down to the couch, watching her. Hypnotized by the sight of him, Hermione reached back to unzip her dress. The look in his eyes told her that this was particularly erotic to him; she slowed down. She almost wished she was wearing more clothing. As it was, she only had the dress and a strapless bra on. If she had known he enjoyed a striptease, she would have gone the whole nine yards with stockings and sexy lingerie.

_There is nothing sexier than your skin._

She looked up at the sound of his voice in her mind. Then, with a demure smile, she let the shoulder of the dress slip down. The other followed and it was slinking down her body like liquid. She turned as it fell, giving him a view of her back. The fabric caught around her hips, prolonging the tension. She wiggled and it dislodged, coasting the rest of the way down her legs. He was treated to the vision of her bare backside as she stepped out of the garment.

She felt unexpectedly sexy in just her shoes and bra. With a coy glance back at him, she reached back to unhook the strapless. All too soon it was undone and being discarded onto the floor. Slowly, she turned.

His face was full of lust. Lust and something else, something she couldn't quite pinpoint, but it frightened her. Not because she feared for her safety or distrusted him; that wasn't the kind of danger it posed. No, this was something too raw, too out of place on his features. It was…

It was something that had to remain nameless, for both their sakes. She strode forward, her heels clicking on the floor, and climbed into his lap. Her lips found his as if by magnetism. His kisses were passionate, consuming her, needing her and owning her at the same time. Instinctively, she flexed her hips forward, stimulating him. His neck lolled back as he groaned and she went for the vulnerable flesh. She needed to capture his scent, his taste, the feel of his slight stubble against her tongue and lips…

As she rolled her hips and kissed over the muscles and arteries and slight protrusion of cartilage in his neck, she felt him carefully removing her shoes. The heels fell away, clacking on the floor. She couldn't stop kissing him. Her head was full of white noise.

When the feeling of his hands on her hips, lifting, cajoling, registered in her brain, she looked down. Somehow, he had managed to apply the condom and do the spells without her even noticing. Then again, she had been a little preoccupied. With the guidance of his hands, she sunk down over his shaft. They shared a sound of relief and pleasure as their bodies merged at last.

It occurred to her that they had been in this same position just a day before. It couldn't feel more distinct, though. Everything was different. Everything.

His lips sealed around her nipple as she began to rock in his lap. He sucked and laved, lavishing each breast with attention while she set the pace. His arms wrapped around her in a loose embrace. And when she began to move too fast for his lips to maintain their attentions, he held her, lifted her, encouraged her, even begged her, whispering things…things that should not have come out of his mouth. Things like _I need you _and _please love me_ and _don't ever stop_.

When they came, one after the other, the world spun. Not even their accidental acid trip could match it for intensity. It brought tears to her eyes and Hermione found that she couldn't blink them back. They trailed down her cheeks. She was almost afraid to look at him.

His eyes were glassy. And though she had seen him cry twice before, these were the only tears that made her uncomfortable. These were the ones she feared. The ones she wished she didn't see.

He lurched forward, slamming his lips to hers. The kiss was hard, angry, frustrated, and everything in between. But when it was done, when he drew away…his face wasn't angry. Carefully, he rose with her in tow and carried her to the bedroom.

* * *

Hermione woke in the middle of the night. The wine had finally gone to her bladder and she had to get up to use the loo. Lucius didn't stir when she extracted herself from the bed or when she climbed back into it a few minutes later.

She started to drift off again. That was when he shifted, shaking the bed slightly. She thought he was only turning in his sleep, but then his fingers gently stroked her hair. She stayed very still and kept her breathing even. She was afraid of what he might say if he thought she was awake.

Hermione thought after a few minutes that she had fooled him. But then:

"_Te solvo_."

It was no more than a whisper, followed by the unmistakable sound of a wand being laid down on a table. Then he settled back down and lay motionless beside her.

Hermione was frozen, completely stunned. _Te solvo._ I release you. He had just released her from the Unbreakable Vow. She hadn't even asked. He had just done it. Her eyes filled with tears.

A minute later, she sat up.

"Lucius?"

But either he was playing the same game of pretend, or he was really asleep. Hermione lay back down with her mind racing. She twisted the bedclothes with her fingers, unable to define the feelings that were barraging her. She quickly gave in to her confused tears. What a fool she was and what delusions she had. For up until this moment…up until those three little words…she had actually thought she might be able to leave him.


	20. Chapter 20

Author's Note: I want to say thank you to everyone for sticking with me. I know this story isn't action laden and the reality of the romance doesn't make for instant gratification. You've all been immensely patient and supportive. You're awesome. And no, the story is not over.

Munchlette Belle: There is still much more to come, but this chapter should evoke a fair few emotions. :)

QuirksnQuills: Thank you. They write themselves, really...

Weary Wanderer: Thanks for all the reviews! This chapter should give you your fix for a while.

Brillant: This quick enough for ya? ;)

GurloftheNight: Thank you! I love this story, too.

Alchemelia: In a way it's good that you forgot about the Vow, because it means that Hermione forgot about it. ;)

VelvetStorm: Glad I could oblige you. I think hot steamy doses of Lucius should be mandatory every Monday. That would be a nice way to start the week. He definitely isn't pushing Hermione away, to answer your question.

LunaNigra: Yes, you predicted it - Ron is in this chapter.

crysta656: Thanks! I know I'm a little erratic with updating...sorry. .o

loveismagic: Read on for the answer... ;)

sjrodgers108: I'm trying to be more on top of the updates. Thanks for continuing to read. :)

Firelight Tales: I'm glad you're enjoying the story. More is on the way!

Rowaine: Thanks! I'm glad people weren't trying to lynch me after that chapter, hehe.

darklady5289: No, they didn't forget protection. Hermione having an HIV scare is not going to happen in this story, so from this point forward, if I don't directly mention that they are using protection, just assume they are. Way to read closely, though. Thanks for your compliments!

Azrulai: Well, there's no such thing as too much praise! Hehe, thanks for your continuing support!

* * *

He dreaded waking. He had not been sure he would even be able to fall asleep, but the wine's seductive charms had made him more amenable to slumber's call. It had also made him more amenable to strong emotions. But who was he kidding? The emotion that rushed at him the moment he opened his eyes was just as strong and he hadn't had a drop to drink.

He closed his eyes immediately. They were stinging dangerously. He knew he was alone in the great bed. And Lucius had been alone for much of his life, but it had never been so painful as this.

He lay there for a long time, aware that it was silly and maudlin to do so. He just didn't want to get up, because doing so would make it real. It would signal the start of a new day, a new time…one in which he was set adrift. Hermione had chipped away at him and many of his walls had fallen under her onslaught. Now she was gone and he was entirely unprotected – from the inside _and_ the outside.

He wanted to hate her. He wanted to despise what she had done to him, what he had allowed her to do. But he felt sick when he tried. He felt sick when he didn't try. He just felt sick.

Lucius curled beneath the blankets and willed sleep to take him again.

* * *

Hermione sat in her flat feeling shaky. She knew she was doing the right thing, but it still terrified her. Sometimes the right thing _was_ frightening.

She looked at the clock. Ron was late. What a great surprise.

Thankfully, he wasn't that late. He knocked at her door five minutes later, preventing her from working herself up too greatly. She stood up robotically and answered the door.

"Hey," he said, leaning over to give her a peck on the lips. He didn't even acknowledge that he was late.

"Hi," she replied, not consciously reciprocating. He walked in and set his broom by the door. That was obviously why he'd been late; he had flown instead of apparating.

In typical Ron fashion, he walked over to her small kitchen table and helped himself to a handful of the peanuts she always had sitting there. She liked to munch sometimes and Ron had always been endlessly thankful for that, since he was more or less a bottomless pit. He usually ate more of her food than she did. It was a joke between them that the outside world would think that no one fed him – which was the biggest fallacy ever, because Molly always made sure that he was seen to.

"I didn't think you wanted me to come over," he said. "You didn't send me a letter."

"You were supposed to contact me, Ron, and yesterday, at that," she said quietly. This was a game he played sometimes – pretending he didn't know or recall what had gone on.

"Oh. I'm sorry, Hermione, I forgot. I've been so distracted with these flying formations." He smiled. "I flew over here today to practice."

She nodded. She couldn't even crack a smile at his enthusiasm, which might have made her smile before. Swallowing, she got right to the point.

"Do you want anything else before we sit down and talk?"

He looked up from the peanut jar. "Can't we just have a nice Sunday together?"

She just looked at him.

"What's the matter?" he asked, annoyance seeping into his tone.

"You must know, Ron."

A surly look crossed his face. "I hear that a lot, you know. I must know what's wrong. And every time I tell you that I'm not psychic!"

"You don't have to be psychic," she replied. "You just have to pay attention."

"I do, Hermione. You're mad at me. I get that. What I don't get is what for."

She took a deep breath. There were a lot of things that she wanted to say to him, some nice, some not so nice. It was difficult to control the not so nice things. She would do her best, though; things would be ugly enough without the intrusion of her razor-sharp tongue.

"I think you should sit down."

"I don't want to sit down, Hermione."

She took another breath. He was so stubborn. "All right, your choice. I want to break up."

"_What?_"

"I want to break up."

"I heard you the first time!" He dropped his peanut shells and thumped his fist on the table. "What the hell are you talking about, breaking up?"

"I'm talking about the fact that we aren't meant to be, Ron."

"Says who?" he demanded.

"Says me," she answered as calmly as she could. "I'm not happy."

"Well, I've got news for you, Hermione. You're not the only one in this relationship!" he sputtered.

"No," she snapped, "I'm not. I'm the third party and I have to compete for attention with your auror training."

"You _know_ that's important to me!" he protested. "It isn't fair."

"But it's fair for you to get irritated when I spend time at the library or doing research? Those things are important to _me_, Ron."

"It's not the same," he sniffed. "You aren't training to protect people. You're just reading books."

Hermione weathered a surge of temper. When things like that came out of his mouth, she wanted to strangle him.

"Do you ever _listen_ to yourself, Ron? What you just said is so disrespectful to me."

"It's the truth, Hermione, but no one else is brave enough to say it to you. When I miss training, like right now, I'm missing things that can help me save people's lives in order to see you and be with you. When you're at the library reading about goblin rebellions and infusions of frog eyeballs, nobody's life depends on it."

She knew he wasn't thinking straight. She knew he didn't apply logic to his life when he was angry. But even though she knew that, she couldn't help but feel annoyed at how bloody _stupid_ he was being.

"Ronald, _how_ do you think healers and mediwitches save lives? They do it by research, by reading and experimenting, by creating new things! Aurors aren't the only ones who save lives!" Her momentum was gathering. "And if you ever bothered to show any interest in what I was doing, you might know that I have been researching cures for Cruciatus overexposure with Neville!"

"Oh, wonderful, my girlfriend has been spending her spare time with another man!" he nearly shouted, throwing his hands up in the air.

"It isn't like that, Ron, and you know it. Neville is with Hannah and they are engaged!" She refused to feel guilty that for the last two weeks, she _had_ been spending time with another man – but it wasn't Neville, that was for sure.

"I don't care about books, Hermione. I don't care about research. I never have. Why should I try to talk about things I don't like and am no good at?" he demanded.

"It goes both ways, Ronald. I'm no good at flying or quidditch and hate both, but I still try to ask you about it. I still try to show a little bit of interest in how the bloody Cannons are doing even though I could care less!"

Ron had no answer for that, because he knew she was right. She _did_ ask him about the Cannons frequently and compliment him on his flying. He moved right on as if the point hadn't even been made.

"We've always known we were different. We decided we didn't care. Why does it matter now?" he pleaded.

"We didn't care about a lot of things when we got together." She collapsed onto the couch.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Ron, we thought we were going to die."

He looked at her blankly, as if to say 'and your point is?' She blew out a breath. She had to spoon feed him _everything_.

"We thought we were going to die and everyone else was dying and…things were bad. It's only natural for people to pair off and cling together in times like that."

"So you mean to say that every couple that formed during the war was just out of convenience?" he said churlishly.

"No, Ron, if I meant to say that I would say 'every couple that formed during the war was just out of convenience.'" She couldn't keep from rolling her eyes. He was always putting words in her mouth.

"Then what _are_ you saying, Hermione?"

"I'm saying that it was easy to overlook our differences when we were trying to fight Voldemort. We only had each other. We dreamed of what it would be like when the war was over, when we could just be together…that kept us going," she sighed. "And now it's over and we're together and everything that kept us apart before is showing itself."

"It's _you _that wants to be apart, Hermione, not me. I want to be together."

"You want to be with the Hermione you think is right. The Hermione you've seen since the war." She looked up at him. "She isn't me, Ron."

He was quiet for a moment, stewing. Hermione held her breath. Either Ron would lash out and say something horribly hurtful now, or he would move on to a new level of adulthood and attempt to actually discuss things with her.

"Well," he said frostily, "I guess I should be glad. I should be glad that the two years I spent in this relationship weren't with the bossy know-it-all who's always talking down to me. Tell her hello, will you?"

And with that he collected his broom and slammed the door.

* * *

She tried not to cry, but it was impossible. She bawled.

She had no idea how Ron could do that. She had tried so hard to be diplomatic and not say all the unkind things she wanted to say. That was how breakups were supposed to be handled. The fewer hurtful things said, the better. Obviously not everyone conformed to that, but she had really tried. She could run off a list of grievances a mile long when it came to Ron and she hadn't – for all the good it did her.

This had made it abundantly, glaringly clear, though, that she was right. They weren't meant to be. Marrying him would have been the biggest mistake of her life. She could thank Lucius for making her realize that.

Lucius was probably the second biggest mistake of her life.

Feeling awful, Hermione cradled one of the throw pillows and cried until it was a soggy, snotty mess.

* * *

Some time later, she woke to a soft touch and a whisper of, "Hermione?"

Her heart hoped it was Lucius, but she knew it wasn't. She opened her swollen eyes and looked into a pair of concerned green ones.

"Harry," she said softly.

"Hey." He shifted to sit on the floor beside the couch, on level with her head where she lay.

"Hi."

He reached for a tissue and offered it. Gratefully, she blew her nose.

"I talked to Ron," he said. "Or, rather, Ron yelled at me."

"I'm sorry," she sniffled. "I should have warned you."

"It's all right. I'm used to his outbursts by now," he replied with a shrug. "He said some pretty nasty things and I'm sure they weren't just confined to my company."

She shook her head, feeling tears prick at her eyes again.

"You know how he is, Hermione."

"I do." She wiped at her eyes. "That doesn't mean I have to forgive it."

"No, it doesn't. But the reason he gets so worked up about things is because he loves you. He loves _us._" Harry had had more than his fair share of angry Ron moments, too.

"Loving people doesn't mean that you _hurt_ them."

"That's not necessarily true," Harry said. "I hurt Ginny sixth year when I broke up with her, but it was all out of love. I loved her and didn't want her to be hurt because of me, or to have to be broken-hearted if I died. I figured being broken-hearted because I pushed her away would be the better way to go." He shrugged. "Stupid, but she understood."

"Ron didn't say what he said out of some sense of nobility. He just wanted to hurt me."

Harry looked at the carpet. He didn't bother to rebut what she said because they both knew it was true. "I'm sorry, Hermione."

"I know," she replied softly. "I am, too."

He reached up to take her hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back and let it rest there for a while, enveloped in the warm surety of Harry's palm. She was beginning to feel a little calmer.

"I hoped you two would make it," Harry said after a while. "But I understand that you might be a little too different and better off as friends."

Friends? Hermione bit the inside of her lip. She wasn't sure friendship was on the horizon.

"Thank you, Harry," she whispered. "This means a lot to me."

He nodded. "You going to be ok?"

"I think so."

"Well, I don't recommend dropping by the auror training grounds if you need to talk, but if you send a letter to Ginny, I'll get it," he smiled.

"Noted."

Harry leaned forward to place a kiss on her cheek. "You're a great woman, Hermione. Don't forget that."

Finally, she smiled. Hermione stood when Harry did and hugged him tightly. "And even though people tell you this all the time and I think it's starting to go to your head, you're a great man."

"I know," he grinned rakishly, and then laughed at himself. "See you, Hermione."

* * *

After Harry's visit, she was able to get herself together enough to make some lunch. It was a little early, and Merlin knew she shouldn't be hungry after all the food she had eaten last night, but she was starving. Obliquely, she knew it was because strong emotions used up a lot of energy. She had burned right through all that wonderful Italian food with last night's anguished confusion and this morning's masochism.

Now the resigned sadness of the breakup was starting to be converted into anger. She had known Ron would react the way he did, but that didn't excuse it. He always had a choice. He was in control of his words and actions. Just because he tended to behave a certain way didn't mean he shouldn't be held responsible when that behavior wounded someone. If no one showed him that there were consequences, he would never learn to change. And if he didn't change, she was afraid that Ron would end up alone. He wasn't that bad of a person that he deserved to be alone.

But she was angry at him. Right. She spread some jam on toast and ate it listlessly.

She had completed step one of her Life Changing Routine. The only problem was that she had no idea what step two was.

* * *

Lucius woke some time in the afternoon. He had a headache. It was the kind that throbbed and throbbed and made life impossible. He didn't know what was inside his head to make it throb so, because it felt so empty without her stream of consciousness…

He had known, when he severed the Vow, that it would alter their connection. The runes were a more ambiguous bond. He was certain it was emotional, so no doubt she felt his misery right now, or maybe he was feeling hers. Maybe they were both overflowing with it and making each other even more miserable.

That was what relationships were, right? Shared misery? He had said it himself during their confrontation in the courtyard. He thought of the way she had jumped into his arms and kissed him and everything began to hurt.

He had endured a great deal of physical and mental torture in his time. He had been raped, of course, and had not had the luck to be accosted by a poorly-endowed tormentor on any occasion – not that it mattered. He had been cruciated until his muscles spasmed, his heart palpitated, and he lost control of his bodily functions. He had been left in complete darkness and silence in Azkaban's solitary confinement for over two months, accused of attacking the very man who had attacked _him_ and given him this godforsaken disease. That alone was enough to drive any man mad, and he had considered just sinking his teeth into his wrists until he found the artery many times. He'd never been able to go through with it. The thought of Draco stopped him. He had no doubt they would have left him in there to slowly go mad and if he hadn't gotten sick. And after Azkaban, he had been ridiculed, taunted, and returned to an even harsher taskmaster. He had been beaten, burned, frozen, cut, and forced to watch someone else do all those things to the people that mattered most to him. He should have died a dozen times.

It was kind of ludicrous that none of that even compared with how much he hurt now.

* * *

"I don't know what to do with my life."

Minerva McGonagall blinked at her former student. "Well, Hermione, I have always told you that you can do anything you want. Any field in the wizarding world would be immensely privileged to have you."

"I know," she said, running her hands through her hair. "That's the problem."

"Aren't you working in the Muggle Affairs department at the Ministry?"

"Yes."

"Are you happy doing that?"

"No," she said immediately – and it was the truth. "It's just something I'm doing until I can figure out what I really want to be doing."

"A lot of people your age find themselves in that position. It's normal, Hermione," the older woman said with a sympathetic smile.

"Did you?"

"Well, no, I always knew I had a talent for transfiguration."

Hermione sighed heavily. She needed an answer. She couldn't stand this limbo any longer.

"Are you all right?" McGonagall asked, pursing her lips in concern.

"No," she replied, again truthfully. "I don't know what to do." Tears filled her eyes and she willed them away. "I just don't know what to do." And even she wasn't sure what she was talking about anymore.

* * *

She had managed to explain away the tears and dishevelment and general malaise to the breakup with Ron. McGonagall had been unfailingly sympathetic and supportive. She always had been. The older witch was sort of the like great aunt she'd never had.

But her day wasn't over. Fate didn't seem to be on her side. For, as she walked towards the main entrance of the castle, the Ancient Runes teacher spotted her.

"Miss Granger?"

It was Eleni Sinistra's voice. Hermione winced. She couldn't ignore the woman; that would be terribly rude. But of all the people she _didn't_ want to talk to right now…gritting her teeth, she turned.

* * *

Now she was in a second office, drinking a second cup of tea. Sinistra's blend was chai and the warm, aromatic spices were at odds with the woman's cool, aloof visage. She was watching Hermione very closely.

"You know," she said, her voice softly powerful, "there are young women in Slytherin house, too, who get upset and need someone to talk to. I know the signs." She put her cup down on its coaster. "Have your runes gone awry?"

"No," Hermione said miserably. "They're just perfect."

Sinistra's face displayed a thoughtful confusion. Hermione would bet that she already knew that Hermione's relationship with Ron was over. McGonagall, her co-conspirator, had probably told her immediately. She sighed; she shouldn't have taken that detour to see Hagrid. He, at least, had been wonderfully oblivious to her dampened spirits.

"You never applied them to Mr. Weasley," the other woman deduced. "There is someone else."

Hermione said nothing.

"I'm not here to judge, Hermione," Sinistra shrugged. "You know that I did not believe Mr. Weasley was right for you, and there is no ring on your finger."

"Thank Merlin," Hermione couldn't stop herself from muttering.

"Then why are you upset, dear? Now you are free to be with this other person."

"That's the thing. I'm not free. _We're_ not free."

"Why?"

Hermione looked down at her hands. Was she actually going to talk about this with Sinistra? She felt safe, as if the other woman would somehow understand more than the others who knew her better – and who expected her to behave a certain way.

"He's…" She stopped and swallowed. "Someone I shouldn't be with."

"Says who?"

Hermione sighed. "Everyone except the two of us."

"What is so bad about this man?"

"Nothing. Everything. He's…" she winced. She had to say it. "He's a Slytherin."

Sinistra smiled. "You know, Hermione, there are those in the magical community who believe that Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor were lovers and their falling out was…" her lips quirked, "a truly awful breakup."

Hermione looked up. No one had ever mentioned such a thing to her.

"Are you one of them?"

"As a matter of fact, I am." She took another sip of her chai. "Slytherins and Gryffindors are cut from the same mold, with a few differences. Those differences aren't insurmountable. Great love can exist between the two." She picked up her wand and waved it at her left hand. Hermione's eyes widened as a platinum wedding band shimmered into existence. It was, of course, circled in runes. "Case in point," Sinistra said, lowering her wand. "I have been bound to a Gryffindor for twenty-one years."

To say Hermione was shocked was an understatement. For one thing, _everyone_ thought Sinistra was single. For another, she never in her wildest dreams would have imagined that the quietly pro-Slytherin professor was married to a Gryffindor.

"And you…you keep it a secret?" Hermione stammered.

"Not for the reasons you think." The dark-haired woman tapped her fingers thoughtfully. "Let's just say…I have a wife and not a husband."

"Oh," Hermione said. It didn't bother her, but it was mildly shocking.

"I just prefer that my orientation not be spread all over the universe. There are still some old-fashioned people out there. Those who matter to me know and accept my choice. If they don't, well…then they were never the people I thought they were, anyhow."

Hermione was silent, absorbing that. Sinistra sighed.

"Hermione, I spent a long time denying and worrying about who I should and should not love. It was lost time that I can never get back. Don't make the same mistake."

* * *

The headache (soul ache?) was slowly passing. He didn't quite want to die anymore. Lucius turned over in the bed. That seemed to be about all he was capable of.

Until a squish-faced ginger cat hopped up onto the mattress. Lucius blinked. That wasn't the kitten. That was Hermione's cat. That was Crookshanks.

His brain stalled. For a few minutes, he petted the cat, listening to its contented purrs. Why would Hermione leave her cat here? He could tell that she loved her familiar. She wouldn't leave him behind.

Much to Crookshanks' displeasure, Lucius got out of bed.

* * *

Hermione walked into the villa with the same determination she had exited with. Of course, now it was for an entirely different reason. Her chat with Sinistra had made things crystal clear – especially the part about time she could never get back, because her time with Lucius was finite. Always finite.

She knew what she wanted. She wanted him, right now, and screw the consequences. If the feelings that roiled inside her were any indication, she had the chance to experience a great love with the least likely partner. She couldn't turn her back on that no matter what challenges it posed.

"Lucius?" she called his name, breathy with exhilaration. She felt so _good_. It felt so good to know.

He wasn't answering. Maybe he had gone out? She made her way to his bedroom. She could smell the humid, herbal scent of his bathing products. With happiness soaring in her chest, she pushed open the bathroom door.

She blinked in confusion. The tub was full, but he was…under the water. Still. Eyes closed.

She panicked. She screamed and ran to the bathtub, plunging her arms into the water and physically pulling him to the surface. She was so upset that she didn't see his eyes pop open in shock. However, she certainly heard his cry of, "Bloody hell, Hermione!"

"Oh my God!" she wailed, throwing her arms around his wet torso. "I thought you had…I thought you were…"

He wiped water out of his eyes. "I was just ducking under to get my hair wet. You missed my suicidal time by about two hours."

"Ooh! Don't do that to me!" she exclaimed tearfully, punching him in the arm. Then she impulsively climbed into the tub with him, fully clothed. It spilled about half the water out onto the floor.

"Have you gone mad?" he demanded

"No!" She laughed and kissed him everywhere that she could reach. He tasted of water and scent-infused skin.

"People usually take their clothes off before getting into the bath, unless I am mistaken."

With a gleam in her eye, Hermione sat up and struggled out of her shirt. She heard his sharp intake of breath; her bra was white and soaking wet. Though it left nothing to the imagination, she pulled it off. Then she leaned back against his chest and wiggled out of her jeans. That was a real challenge, since they weighed about as much as her when wet, but she didn't mind because she knew what effect all her squirming was having on him. When she had at last cast away her sodden knickers and flip-flops, he was at full attention.

That was just fine with her. She turned over and kissed him, rubbing her now-naked body suggestively against his in the water. He was more than happy to join in her horseplay and they wriggled and tousled and splashed water everywhere until they couldn't stand it anymore. Lucius then hoisted her out of the tub and carried her, giggling and play-fighting, back to the bed.

In minutes he was between her thighs, filling her. His pace was hard and somehow victorious. They clung and pulled and grasped at one another, fingers digging into eager flesh as they made love. His shoulders were striped with the lines of her fingertips and her hips imprinted with the shape of his hands. And all the while, he slammed home inside her again and again, groaning, panting, saying her name, ordering her to come, to say _his_ name, damn it, say it…

And she did. She shouted his name, moaned it, keened it, worshipped it as she clenched around him violently and pleasure made her go blind. He thrust through it with a growl, keeping his relentless pace and stoking the frenzied fire inside her. She was a shivering, whimpering mess of jelly when he finally stiffened and came with a sharp, guttural cry.

In the aftermath, they lay there gasping for breath.

"Don't leave me," he panted after a long, brain-fogged moment.

Somehow she managed to string together a coherent sentence. "I'm not…going…anywhere." She slid her hands down his back and cupped his buttocks, her hand tracking over the runes. The feeling of the raised letters sent a hot flush of moisture to her core. She raised her hips against his and put her mouth against his ear. "Fuck me again, Lucius."

* * *

They were jarred out of their mini-coma by a kitten walking on top of them. Lucius grumbled and shoved the ginger fur ball away. Hermione smiled; he didn't yet know that the easiest way to get a cat to bother you was to not want it to bother you. Sure enough, the kitten bounced back and parked itself right next to his face. He got a noseful of fur and sneezed.

"Bloody thing," he murmured. His sentiment was annoyed, but all he did was pet the little kitten. Hermione's smile grew wider. She loved it when a man pretended not to like a cute cuddly creature. Their actions always gave them away for the wimps they were.

"Lucius, did you decide what you're going to name the kitten?"

"Mm," he said, eyes closed. "Musca."

She considered it. "What does it mean?"

His lips rose in a small smile. "Look it up." He opened his eyes for a moment; mirth was dancing in his tired irises. "It reminded me of you."

She raised a suspicious eyebrow at him. "Oh really? It must be very flattering, then."

"Terribly." The smirk gave him away.

"Hmph," she huffed. She made to turn onto her stomach and winced. "Ouch."

Lucius looked over at her, quickly deducing the source of her pain. "Sorry."

"Don't be. I asked for it and I enjoyed every minute." Hermione shifted and hid a grimace. The soreness was certainly worth the incredible sex.

"As did I." He stretched, yawning. "I never did get to wash my hair."

"You'll survive."

"Indeed." Lucius laced his hands behind his head. "So…" he said quietly, "what now?"

"What?" She blinked. She could hear the doubt in his voice.

"Well, as much as I enjoyed you ambushing me in the bath, it didn't provide me with many answers."

She rolled over and molded against his side, placing a small kiss on his shoulder. "I told you, I'm not leaving."

There was a beat of silence. Then he said, "What about your job?"

"Job?"

"Yes, you know, that thing you have to go to in between bouts of worshipping me," he cracked. "Did you take more time off? I don't want them thinking that you're lazy. They wouldn't fire you, but--"

"Lucius, I quit my job at the Ministry."

He sat up so fast that she was sure he must have made himself dizzy. "What?!" he nearly shouted.

"I quit. It was just a temporary thing."

"Hermione, no. You can't do that. You _can't_." He appeared very distressed. "Not because of me."

"It isn't because of you. I didn't like the job. It wasn't what I wanted to do."

"But the Ministry! It's…there are so many connections you can make there…so many opportunities…you can't give that up." He was up on his knees now, pointing a finger at her. "I won't let you give that up."

She couldn't quite take him seriously when his penis was only a foot from her face. She tried not to smile. He still thought it was about him – typical Lucius. It wasn't about him at all; it was about doing what she wanted to do for a change. He just so happened to be on that list. At least, she hoped that was why she was doing it; she didn't want to be the kind of woman who structured her entire life around her significant other. But she was getting a little ahead of herself.

"I was there because I didn't know what I wanted to do. Now I know," she clarified.

That settled him slightly. He sat back on his heels. "What will you do, then?"

"I'm going to University to become a Healer."

Lucius frowned. "Hermione…"

"I'll be applying to different schools for the rest of the summer, and then taking the prerequisites I need at the University in Florence in the fall. In January I start Healer School, wherever I decide to go."

"And this isn't because you want to _save someone,_ is it?" he asked, his brow furrowed.

"Well, I'd imagine everyone who goes to Healer School wants to save people, or else why would they go?"

"You know what I'm getting at," he said sharply. "I don't want you to make choices based on me. I want you to do what is right for you."

She stared at Lucius for a moment. What she would have given to have heard those words or something similar come out of Ron's mouth, even once. She had absolutely made the right decision.

"This is the right choice," she said softly, and rose up to kiss the corner of his mouth. "Healer Smythe will be here tomorrow to help me narrow down schools."

He looked at her as if she was a mirage. "And you'll…be staying here?"

Hermione smiled. "The rent on my flat is paid through the end of the year. Are you planning on going somewhere else?"

At last, he smiled back. "No. I'll have to go to the Manor sometimes, but I'm certain you won't want to accompany me there."

"You're right." She left it at that.

He reached out to stroke her cheek. "You know that…" he trailed off. She looked into his eyes patiently, waiting for the words to work themselves out. "You know that I have no idea what I'm doing."

She knew what he meant. And the truth was…

"Neither do I."

* * *

A/N 2: A brief note about the name Musca: it means 'the fly' and is used in Italian to indicate someone who is annoying. It made me think allll the way back to chapter 6 (?), where Lucius asks Anna the counter girl at the tea shop for synonyms for 'annoying' in an obvious jab at Hermione. It also seemed like something Lucius would name the 'unwanted' kitten to irk Hermione. Plus, Mr. Musca has a knack for hovering around Lucius, so all in all it's the perfect name!

But anyhow…How did you like the chapter?!!!!?!!1 ;)


	21. Chapter 21

Author's Note: Just wanted to say, from this point forward if I don't directly mention that L&H are using protection/their spells, assume they are (and no, they did not forget them in the last chapter). I do normally respond to reviews but I'm pretty tired and have a headache right now, so I'm not going to. I promise I will pick back up and do it next time!

* * *

The next morning:

She woke with her cheek resting between his shoulder blades. In the night she had evidently spooned against his back. His bare skin was soft and smooth and he smelled heavenly in spite of the interruption in his bathing routine the night before. With a contented little sigh, she burrowed closer to him.

She was dozing when she felt him stretch, and his foot went between hers and rubbed along her calf. A few moments later he turned to face her. They were sharing the same pillow now; sleepily, Hermione opened her eyes.

Merlin, she would never get over the color of his.

"Am I hallucinating?" he murmured.

Hermione smirked. "Been doing that LSD again?"

He smiled. She noticed that there were the faintest beginnings of laugh lines around his eyes. It said a lot that in his mid-forties, they barely existed. She loved the mix of youth and age that made up his face and didn't think that would change much in the years to come, but this was one set of wrinkles she wanted him to have. She made up her mind to do her best to start etching them in.

Starting with a kiss. She leaned across the short distance and brushed her lips over his. He responded in kind, reaching out to wrap his arm around her waist and tug her against him. For the first time, it felt completely normal. There were no more secrets, no more hidden stresses; Hermione had made up her mind, she knew what to do, and being firmly in control of her life and her choices made her just as happy as the skillful touch of his lips.

Lucius had always known what he wanted, even if he couldn't quite articulate or believe it. He was a selfish man, but who was not when happiness was the commodity in question? Even so, the fact that he'd been willing to let her go, to let her make her own decisions, said an awful lot about how he truly felt. So did his stealthy removal of the Vow.

Someday, she reasoned as his mouth trailed along her jaw, she would bring that up. Someday she would thank him. She wasn't sure if he knew she knew, or if he believed that she had really been asleep. Such certainty had gone with their telepathic link.

There was a brief flicker of wonder in her mind; she couldn't keep herself from contemplating whether or not those few words in the dark of night had been precisely calculated - a trump card of sorts. It was not outside the realm of his personality to carefully consider what would keep her with him, and do it purely out of the desire to prevent her from leaving.

The thought of manipulation might have alarmed her weeks ago. But now she knew him and realized that though she could awaken him, excavate facets of him that had long been buried beneath hot and shifting sands, she couldn't change what he was at his core. So even if he had released her from the Vow with the intention of doing the one thing she least expected, the one thing that would make her return to him, that was still a momentous choice. Any Slytherin preferred security over trust, so even if his trust in her was planned, it was still trust that hadn't existed before. A Slytherin's trust was not to be sneezed at; it was nearly comparable with – dare she think it? No. Not just yet.

Besides, she was sure that by now _he_ knew that she wasn't blind to his orchestrations. An oblivious sheep she was not. Even if it had been pure manipulation, he would have done it with the knowledge that she wouldn't be manipulated unless she wanted to. In the most twisted of ways, Lucius Malfoy plotting to keep her was one hell of a compliment.

He had ceased his attack on her jaw and neck and now lay beside her in quiet contentment. She smiled at his relaxed visage. All rumination on manipulation aside, she would never be sure what had guided him that night. And surprisingly, she was fine with that, for this was one case where his motivation mattered less than his actions. And weren't the two opposite sides of the same coin, anyhow?

Ah, now she was thinking too much. She had come to recognize the symptoms. Lucius had given her a great gift in that. Hermione reached out to stroke his cheek and consciously enjoyed the rough tickle of his morning stubble against the pads of her fingers.

At first he didn't open his eyes. Then, slowly, his lashes rose. The look they revealed was entirely indefinable. Her breath hitched in and felt a slight sting above her right breast – the runes. She spared a moment to be thankful they were not on the other side, for her heart hammered enough under his gaze…

He moved, his body settling over hers. She had no idea how he managed to make his weight pleasant rather than restrictive. There he stayed for what was easily five whole minutes, astride her, watching her, full of intensity. She expected him to initiate sex – that sensual dominance was radiating from him – but in the end, all he did was grip her chin and kiss her. Then he was gone, retreated to the loo, and Hermione felt too light without his weight to pin her to the earth.

He was quietly scarce for most of the day. She felt odd and fluttery in his absence and in spite of the realization that she was driving herself crazy, she thought for hours on end about what that look in his eyes had meant. She was glad he trusted her enough with his secrets not to require the threat of death, but Hermione had to admit that without the Vow, she had no insight into what he was thinking. At least before there had been little snippets of thoughts to let her know where he was mentally.

She retired to his bed before he did that night. It was a pointless endeavor, as she did not sleep. When the soft light of his Lumos entered the room just before midnight the clamp around her heart released.

The light and shadows cast his features into sharp relief. It made him look like his father, or what memory she had of the man from his dreams. She took the wand from his hand, extinguishing the light and that line of comparison. The inky darkness enveloped them.

In seconds, he was all over her, his hands and lips insatiable. She could feel the need in every move and knew she was echoing it. The sex was passionate and frenzied and somehow hotter for the lack of sight. She didn't know where she was in space or what direction was up or down in the thick, moonless night. All she knew was that Lucius's arms and the long, heated stretch of his body were her anchors. They rocked like a ship, moored to one another against the vast openness of night's ocean.

He could barely be quenched. Hermione's breath was still quick in her chest and the quake of orgasm not yet faded when he fumbled for another condom. She had only a minute to think about how he was getting good if he could put it on in the dark before he turned her over onto her hands and knees and aligned himself behind her.

It was the first, but hopefully not the last time that she made love three times in one night. They fell asleep at the height of what muggles called the witching hour – the time when the earth's magic was strongest. It lulled them into an undeniable somnolence, curled tightly about one another.

In the morning's light they would laugh, for Lucius had come to bed with ink on his fingers and the sweaty heat of their sex had left streaks of it all over both of them.

* * *

6 weeks later:

"Will you just make a choice already?" Lucius said, exasperated. It had been six weeks and Hermione was no closer to choosing a school than she had been when she pounced on him in the bathtub. She'd submitted all the applications, and of course every single school had accepted her, but she was having a hell of a time ruling anything out.

She cast him an irritated look. "You should know me well enough by now to know that I overanalyze everything!"

He fortunately had enough sense to say nothing. That was yet another thing that put him in an entirely different league than her ex. Lucius knew when to hold his tongue and when not to, and though he occasionally failed at restraining himself, it was nothing like what she'd endured with Ron. Simply put, Lucius had common sense.

"Hermione," he said softly after a few moments, "anywhere you go will give you what you need."

"I know that, but…I only get to go to University once! I want it to be perfect."

"Nothing is perfect." His chin ticked up slightly. "Except me, of course."

She laughed – something she had the luxury of doing with him. "You just keep thinking that, Malfoy."

"I shall."

She crossed her arms over her chest and eyed him slyly. "While we're on the subject of things we can't seem to decide on, any progress on the ending?"

"Ugh," he said, slumping in his chair. "No."

As difficult as Hermione was finding it to choose a school, he was finding it equally difficult to decide how to end Soif. He had written furiously in the weeks since she had chosen him (she said it was a no-brainer but he knew otherwise) and then he had crunched to a grinding halt. For a full week now, he'd written nothing. He just had no idea how to bring closure to a story that didn't truly have any.

"You'll figure it out."

"I hope so."

She smiled at him. He had no idea how happy it made her to hear him use that word – hope. He'd had none when she'd journeyed here with him eight short weeks ago. Now he was an entirely different person.

More and more, she was seeing just how right Sinistra had been when she said that Gryffindors and Slytherins were cut from the same mold. It was impossible to tell until the masks were dropped. Lucius had all but left his behind. This was the real man, whose depth she never could have begun to guess before.

With a grin, Hermione deposited herself in his lap. It didn't faze him; he simply wrapped his arms around her waist. She could hear his indrawn breaths as he smelled her hair. That never got old for him.

"I think we need to get out," she said. "Step away from our projects for a while."

"Did you have something in mind?"

"No," she shrugged. "Maybe a day trip somewhere."

"Where?"

"I don't know. Aren't there places you want to go?"

"I'm fairly content with my place right now, actually."

She laughed; of course he was content with a pretty girl on his lap. "But it would be better without clothes, right?"

"It's always better without clothes."

She could hear the smirk in his voice. Hermione smiled and lounged against him, enjoying the feel of his strong arms cradling her. She had to admit that she was content right here, as well.

"I think you're right," he murmured after a while. "We've both been trying to force things…me with the book and you with your choice of university." He repositioned her in his lap so she was draped sideways, her legs dangling off the side of the chair and her shoulders and head supported by his arm. "My dear," he announced, "I think we need a vacation."

She stared up at him. Hermione knew that all this time they had been on a vacation. A vacation from the real world…

True, he took care of his business at the Manor once or twice a week. He had also gone to brunch with Draco a few times. Without fail, he was quiet and agitated when he got back, but she didn't press him about it. He talked to her about many things, but Draco was not one of them…yet. The fact remained, though, that he was not as far removed from real life as she was.

She had scarcely been back to her flat. She'd gone home to Surrey for her father's birthday two weeks ago. Ron hadn't initiated any contact with her and she felt no need to contact him. Harry had sent one letter asking what she was up to and if she wanted to come to dinner with him and Ginny one day. But other than that, she was barely present in what had once been her life.

Indeed, she was living a second, secret one here. One where she took prerequisite classes three days a week in Florence down the street from the Uffizi, where she returned home to a beautiful villa and a beautiful man that had been completely off limits in her other life. It was a life where money was no object, where everything was simple and easy and right. It was almost _too_ easy, and sometimes that made her feel quite strange.

But the way he looked at her…the way he touched her, the way he let her see all of him…it demolished all her hesitation. She should have been worried that he clouded her mind. The truth was she was too damn happy to be worried!

That was what made her feel strange. She didn't grudge her friendship with Harry one bit, but she had to admit that it had caused her to anticipate and even expect chaos, pain, and disappointment in her life. In the absence of those things she wasn't entirely sure how to function.

She wondered if he felt the same. If he did, he didn't show it. He was remarkably at ease; Lucius had really taken his refusal to live in fear to heart. Hermione was getting there. Slowly but surely, she was accepting that she deserved this happiness, and that it was real.

Still, she knew that at some point, it would be challenged. They couldn't hide forever. But the more she hid with him, the more she was convinced that he would be worth the insanity that was sure to come when they were revealed.

* * *

In the end, they decided on Iceland. It was not a typical place, but they were not a typical couple, and they could be fairly sure that no one would recognize them there. Iceland's wizarding population was small and confined almost entirely to one section of Reykjavik. As long as they avoided that section, they would be fine.

Truthfully, that was what they planned, anyway. The wizarding world didn't hold much appeal since they didn't and _couldn't_ exist freely there, not together. So, they went as muggles in everything except transportation.

It was exactly what they needed. From the very unpleasant, yet hilarious meals of _svio_ and _hrutspungur_ to the cooling winds raising a pink flush on their cheeks as they made their way through the streets to the way they would fall together upon returning to the hotel to thoroughly warm each other up, it was perfect.

Perhaps the most perfect thing was lounging in a hot spring during the fleeting night. Darkness only lasted a few hours this time of year, but those few hours were easily one of the most magical things either of them had ever experienced. They had another moment in the warm, mineral-rich water, one in which all else faded away as they stared with rapt attention at the shifting rainbow of the aurora borealis playing across the sky. Hermione was getting quite good at shutting off her brain now, and that was what she did, cradled against Lucius in the warm cocoon of the water.

Neither of them wanted to leave when Sunday night came around. But they did, dutifully apparating first to Dublin, then to Paris, and then the rest of the way back to Tuscany. They appeared outside the villa and were instantly hit with a wall of heat; summer wasn't yet finished in Italy. Together they laughed as they stripped off their coats, gloves, hats, and scarves. Anyone who saw them would have thought they were mad.

And they were – for each other.

* * *

4 weeks later:

Lucius was sitting with Paolo, sipping a heavy red wine and enjoying the scent of the other man's cigar. He and Hermione had taken to coming down on Sundays for dinner. Initially, it had required much cajoling, but now they joined the weekly family dinner without hesitation. It was strange to really _feel_ like family. This was a family dynamic that Lucius had never known.

Today Elisabetta's sisters were here, sans husbands, so they were the only men over the age of twelve. The women were still at the table talking, Hermione included; she had been sucked into the family gossip wheel almost instantaneously. She laughed about it whenever they got back. She had no idea who cousin Emilia from Ravenna was and would probably never meet her, but for some reason she found it inordinately interesting that she was dating a Portuguese guitar player that Uncle Luigi would never approve of. A smirk touched Lucius's lips. He wondered what she was being regaled with today. Doubtless, he'd hear about it when they walked back up to the villa – Hermione had realized that he actually liked gossip more than she did, though she was kind enough to pretend that she didn't know.

"They are so silly," Paolo said, echoing his thoughts. He wore a fond smile.

"What do we see in them?" Lucius joked.

"Hmm. Bosoms?" Paolo suggested.

Lucius put down his wine and chuckled. "Right. That must be it."

A comfortable silence passed. Lucius's eyes strayed to Hermione; she sat between two of Elisabetta's sisters whose names he couldn't remember. She was making funny faces at a chubby baby situated on the lap to her left. The baby was giggling in delight. Hermione's smile, when she looked up and caught him staring, was radiant.

"Paolo," he said impulsively, "how do you know if you're in love?"

Paolo appeared surprised for a moment. "Well, that is a very serious question, my friend."

"I suppose it is."

"Have you never been in love before?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so."

"That is unfortunate."

"Well, I love my son, but that isn't the same."

"No," Paolo agreed. "What about your son's mother?"

Lucius pondered. If what he had felt for Narcissa was love, then he had no idea what his feelings for Hermione would be classified as…obsession, perhaps? Insanity?

"It was an arranged marriage," he murmured. "I…respect her, and I loved her as a partner and the mother of my son, but I don't think I was ever _in love_ with her."

"You are divorced, then?"

He nodded.

Paolo took a drag on his cigar and blew the smoke out thoughtfully. "We had wondered if you were just hiding from your wife. If Hermione was your mistress."

As offensive as Lucius found that idea, he understood where it came from. And he had to admit that _he_ had been Hermione's lover on the side for a few weeks. He had known that she would never pick Weasley over him. She would never have come to Tuscany with him if she was not three-quarters of the way done with the boy anyhow. She had just needed that last push. They had pushed each other and ended up with exactly what they needed. He had no qualms or fits of conscience on the matter; Hermione belonged with him.

He settled for a simple, "No."

"You are a strange couple."

_You have no idea_, he wanted to say. He silently agreed instead.

"But I suppose you know that," Paolo mused. "So, Luciano…how does one know he is in love?" The muggle frowned and thought for a moment, his eyes seeking his wife. "Well, I suppose it starts with always wanting to be around her. Feeling better…happier…in her presence. Missing her when she isn't there. Then you start to…relate things to her, think about how she would like things you see, or laugh at a joke. You have to stop yourself from talking about her. Then it moves into your guts and your chest…you feel this…strange…"

He couldn't quite put words to it. Paolo lifted a hand and wiggled it, as if he was indicating something was so-so. Lucius swallowed. He knew what Paolo meant. He had been experiencing that feeling every now and then for the last month. At first he'd thought there was something wrong with him, some kind of heart murmur; Tiresias, however, assured him he was perfectly healthy (or as healthy as he could be, given his condition).

"You feel like you can tell her anything. Like she understands you better than anyone else in the world. You can barely keep your hands off her. Waking up next to her is the best part of your day. Before you know it, you don't want to live without her. She makes you happy, and you make her happy, and when she's happy you're happier, and on and on…" The Italian offered a rueful smile as he trailed off. "So what do you think, Luciano? Are you lost?"

He looked once again at Hermione. She was so beautiful; the early evening sun lit up the streaks of blonde in her hair and played over her skin, which was tanned a delicate hue of bronze. He knew that bronze was continuous, uninterrupted by the pale stripes of clothing, because up until the autumn chill invaded the days she had sometimes sunbathed nude in the courtyard. He closed his eyes at the thought of her spread out upon the lounge in nothing but her sunglasses.

"Luciano?"

Oops. He had drifted off for a moment there. Lucius returned his attention to Paolo and his rather significant query. Was he lost? He thought about all that Paolo had described. It was certainly the case that he couldn't keep his hands off Hermione; she joked that he ought to buy stock in condom companies. He was half-tempted to do it, just to see how she would react. Sarcastic investment advice aside, that was purely physical attraction and it certainly wasn't the only ingredient in love.

He did miss her when she was at school or when he was at the Manor attending to some mindless business. Even from the very beginning, the positive effect she'd had on his writing was proof enough that he was happier and more productive with her near. He had told her things that no one else knew, let her see parts of him that had long been buried…and he _trusted_ her. That was no small thing.

Waking up next to her _was_ one of the best parts of his day. She was always warm and fragrant and in the most beautiful disarray. He liked to send her off to class with an orgasm still tingling in her center, if she would let him. Sometimes she was late and he was sure the flush in her cheeks inadvertently told everyone why.

He _really_ didn't want to live without her. Ever.

Bugger. He was completely lost. In the past, it would have terrified him. He had heard and read often enough that love could be as awful as it was wonderful. But, he supposed, it was only awful if you lost it…and Lucius planned to do nothing of the sort.

He gave Paolo a short nod of affirmation. The Italian man smiled and raised his glass.

"To your love, then."

"Yes," he murmured, feeling elated and uncomfortable at the same time, "to…my love." With the toast complete, he drank deeply of the wine, knowing that all he had to do now was work up the courage to tell Hermione.

* * *

Two weeks later:

Lucius stifled a yawn behind his hand and then leaned down to put on his socks. It was Saturday and he was having brunch with Draco. Hermione was still asleep, as she usually was when he left for his weekly appointment with his son. He frowned; he shouldn't refer to it as that. But honestly, it felt that way sometimes.

Draco came every week, but he didn't speak much. The war had changed his son as it had changed everyone, and Lucius strongly suspected that much of that silence was a cover for the clamor of thought and confusion that surely went on in Draco's head. Lucius had felt much the same in the direct aftermath of the war.

Now he felt…well, he felt like everything was finally as it was supposed to be. That was a relative assessment, of course; he was still sick, still in a relationship that couldn't exist outside their own embraces, still had a terrible reputation among the rest of his peers, and still had a son who wasn't sure if he wanted to forgive. But in comparison to before…

It was difficult to believe, but when he had been married, powerful, healthy, and in his son's good graces, he had been absolutely miserable. He had not recognized it as such, though, because he had never known anything _but_ that underlying misery. It was the status quo and he had mistaken it for happiness.

Not so anymore. He summoned his shoes. With each passing weekend, he felt more and more like he was somehow drifting away, moving on where his son could not. The wall of secrets between them seemed to build upon itself, brick by brick. Soon he would not be able to crack it and that frightened him.

He had sworn not to be ruled by fear, but this was one case in which fear was a useful emotion. He did not want history to repeat itself. Lucius didn't think he could bear it if Draco struck him from his life, as Lucius had with his own father. He knew he had not been perfect and that fathers had been cut out for lesser things, but he hoped and prayed that Draco found some redeeming quality in him.

Shoes securely donned, he twisted to look at Hermione. Maybe she was the only one capable of seeing such things. Or maybe he just had to drop that wall and _show_ Draco the few qualities he had. He had tried, really he had, but Draco never seemed ready for it.

With a sigh, he rose and went to retrieve his coat.

* * *

Draco was mildly surprised at his father's appearance. He looked immaculate as always, and still expensive, but he had foregone his usual fur-lined cloak in favor of a decidedly muggle wool trench. It wasn't something he would have worn willingly before. Draco wasn't the only one looking because he wasn't the only one who knew that.

His father wove through the hordes of people deftly, hands in pockets. Diagon Alley was busy because there were only a few days until Halloween. When at last he made it through the crowd, he offered a tight little smile and lifted his chin toward the café. Draco nodded and headed for the door.

* * *

Draco liked to watch him. Frequently, he could tell more about his father in silence than in words. He never did know how much of what came out of his mouth was true. But the set of his body, his gestures, the tics of his face and flickering eyes – those were things that Draco knew and could depend on for something real. Since the end of the war, his father didn't bother to cover them when he was with him – perhaps to his credit, or perhaps to his detriment, because Draco had learned all too well at his knee how to exploit such emotional openness.

Draco surveyed him now over his tea. He had gained some weight. That was good, he supposed, since he'd noticed that his sire had become quite thin. Not skeletal by any means, but thinner than he ever recalled in his lifetime. It wasn't out of some sudden desire for fitness, either, for his father was perfectly fit. That led him to conclude that it was out of stress or forgetfulness or both.

His father was distracted today. His foot was jiggling beneath the table and his eyes were everywhere, perusing the room and fixing for a few seconds before darting to the next thing that caught his attention. His coffee was cooling and would soon be undrinkable without a heating charm. He had also said next to nothing since they came in.

That was strange. Draco was usually the quiet one, responding only when it was required or he actually had something to say. His father could talk about nothing at length, a talent that Draco was thankful for, because it made it seem like they were not as estranged as they were. Today was different.

He put down his tea cup. He had been making it difficult for his father on purpose, and he had to admit that he was somewhat warmed by the fact that he'd continued to meet him every Saturday no matter how silent or detached the last meeting had been. It meant that he _cared_.

Truthfully, Draco hadn't really questioned that. He knew his father cared, but every time he thought about it, he became so angry that he could hardly breathe. If he _cared_, then why had he done what he'd done? Why had he gotten in so deep that they'd barely made it out? Why, why, why…that was all he ever ended up with, because his father didn't talk about himself.

Draco was no better, because he didn't ask. He didn't stare the man down and demand to know. He wasn't afraid of him, not in the least. He was afraid of the answers he might get.

The window was closing. He could sense it. His father had come every weekend for the last two and a half months in the hopes that Draco would ask. He couldn't offer up the answers freely; that just wasn't how he or they or anyone like them worked. But if he was asked…if the future of his relationship with his son depended on it, he would speak.

The dialogue had to be opened. Lucius had tried repeatedly since the end of the war, only to be shot down by Draco's stubborn and fearful silences. Now he wasn't trying anymore. Draco stared at him and found that he hated the idea of his father giving up.

"Father," he said, hands locking around his cup in a white-knuckled grip, "is something wrong?"

Lucius's roaming eyes returned to him. They were cautious. The strange combination of emotions Draco saw there made him incredibly uncomfortable; there was hope, vulnerability, pain, and…distrust. His father thought he was toying with him.

Was he that cruel? Yes. He'd done it several times before. Draco didn't know why, because his rational mind knew that it had never been his father causing him pain. His father's choices had landed him in the grip of a madman, but his father _wasn't_ that madman. His father hadn't Cruciated him, beaten him, put him down, forced him to do terrible things and nearly squander his life…he hadn't made him do any of that. But he still had a hell of the time separating him from the psychopath who had.

Worse, Draco knew that he could have refused. He was smart enough to have found a way out on his own. The options weren't glamorous, but neither were the things he'd been too weak to fight.

He stared at his sire, the question dangling between them like a hangman's knot. Draco felt as though he was about to slip it around his neck but he pushed forward anyway; he had to. What was ahead would be painful, but right now the stagnancy of their relationship was only forcing them further apart.

Draco reached into his coat pocket – a coat that was not all that different from the one his father wore (and one he had started wearing solely to annoy the man) – and fished out some galleons. He laid them on the table to pay for the drinks.

The expression on his father's face changed subtly. It was just a slight draw of the brows, the furrow between them emerging, and a tension in his jaw. When had the man's eyes become so expressive? He could tell from the pain he saw there that his father thought he was going to get up and leave.

It was tempting, but counterproductive. Draco didn't want to lose his father. Perhaps he could not exist with him in perfect harmony, but he knew he would regret it if he let their relationship die. With a shaky sigh, he reached out, grasped his father's wrist, and Apparated.

* * *

Lucius took a moment to find his balance. He hadn't expected the sudden Apparition. Draco held on to his wrist, probably sensing his disorientation. Selfishly, he could admit that he was glad Draco didn't let go the moment they materialized. There was some note of concern in the prolonged physical support, even if it was just out of duty or habit.

A minute later, he nodded at Draco. His son released him and Lucius looked around. They were not anywhere he recognized. Beyond the small walkway they had landed in, he could see a residential street. The houses weren't distinct enough to give him an impression of their location.

"Ready?" Draco said, with a sideways glance.

"For what?" he asked. He was still a little thrown by Draco's sudden interest in his emotional state, not to mention his impromptu departure from the café.

"You'll see," Draco responded cryptically.

In a show of what could have been considered extreme faith, he followed his son without question. He was certain that wasn't lost on Draco. His eyes had thawed marginally when he stopped before the walkway to one of the nondescript houses and looked back.

"Once we go in, promise you won't leave."

It was on the tip of his tongue to speak a phrase about promises. He stifled it. The man that believed that barely existed anymore. Though he had no idea what he was marching headlong into, Lucius nodded slowly.

"I won't leave."

Draco swallowed. "Okay."

They walked down the short stone path, up three stairs, and through a door that was painted a generic shade of blue. Once inside, there was a short hallway and then a small room. A woman sat at a desk on the far end. She glanced up when they entered.

"Oh," she said with a warm smile. "Draco, you're early."

"I know," he said. "Is that all right?"

"Yes. You're the only morning appointment, anyhow. If you just wait a minute, I'll get him for you." She stood up and disappeared into a door just behind the desk.

"Him?" Lucius asked softly.

Draco didn't look at him. "Healer Newbery. He's a mind healer."

"You never mentioned you were seeing one. I am glad."

"Really?" Now his son looked at him, a perplexed look in his eyes. "I thought you would be ashamed of me."

"For taking care of yourself? Of course not." He frowned. "I've been told that I should see one, too."

The door on the other side of the room opened. A thin, tall balding man beckoned with his hand.

"Well," Draco said nervously, "now you are."

* * *

Lucius returned to the villa feeling more drained than he had in ages. Never having had therapy before, he hadn't known that it was an exhausting business. He felt like there were too many things in his head, pushing against the boundaries of his skull and threatening to split it at the seams. Why had he agreed to that?

He'd been warned that therapy was an exercise in self-flagellation. He wouldn't go so far as to say that it was true, but it was certainly uncomfortable to have think and speak about things that he was more than happy to leave buried in his psyche. Worse, it was extremely daunting to listen to Draco. His son had a lot of anger. He supposed that any spawn of his would. It seemed to be a family curse.

He had come to one realization, though. Sometimes he forgot that trauma didn't always have to come from the extreme, as it had with him. What Draco had seen and been forced to do would haunt him, as would the remembrance of helplessness. It still haunted Lucius and he was only now beginning to grasp how helpless he had been. What things a man would do for the illusion of control…

Mentally exhausted, he dropped onto his bed. Well, not really his…it was _their_ bed, and it still smelled like Hermione. He closed his eyes and breathed. Slowly, his pulse slowed, the adrenaline faded from his system, and his muscles gave in to the fatigue. He knew it was lunch time and that he should eat because he and Draco hadn't actually consumed anything at brunch, but once he relaxed he simply couldn't get up.

* * *

She found him like that an hour later, facedown and fully dressed on the bed. Even his gloves were still on. Hermione had to smile.

She had seen him like this a few other times. Occasionally, if he stayed up all night to write or think or whatever it was he did when he stared out the villa's giant window, he would drop off like this. She didn't think he'd done that last night as he'd fallen asleep before her, but he was a complex man and complex men were often prone to bouts of insomnia.

It must have been something like that. She got the feeling that his brunches with Draco weren't overly taxing, so that probably wasn't the culprit. The last few times he hadn't been as bothered when he returned. Either things were getting better or he was letting go of the hope that he'd ever reconcile with his son.

Absently, she stroked his hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear. She knew it meant a lot to him and she sincerely hoped that Draco was coming to his senses. If their relationship was to fail, it wouldn't be due to a lack of trying on Lucius's part. It would be because Draco did not want to forgive. That wasn't really out of character for him, but she thought he might have outgrown it by now.

She had tried her best to blot out some of the negative feelings she reserved for Draco. Lucius had been cruel to her in the past, but it had never been _personal_ the way it was with Draco. Lucius had disliked her because she was a muggleborn. Draco disliked her because she was a muggleborn, because she was Hermione Granger, because she was a Gryffindor, because she got better grades than him (though not by much), because she was best friends with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley…so many reasons. Draco had on several occasions gleefully gone out of his way to be rude or downright vile to her.

Part of it could be attributed to the stupidity of being a spoiled child and an entitled teenager. No one had ever told him no, just like no one had ever told him the truth about the other people in the world around him. But she would never forget the smug maliciousness that would spark in his eyes just before he vented his spleen. She had always made it a point to look straight into them even though she knew what was coming. In some ways it was a victory, because it would anger him, but in other ways…well, she would swear that by the time they were in sixth year, he had come to expect her defiant gaze and even enjoy it.

She wanted to believe that he was different. Lucius had shown her that it was possible. But if Draco couldn't see the change in his father, was he really able to see change in anything else? If he couldn't, then he was still the same spoiled, blinkered child he'd always been.

Hermione sighed. She ought to wake Lucius, for if he slept much longer he wouldn't be tired tonight. However, she couldn't find it in her heart to disturb him. He looked tired even in sleep. He looked like he had that first morning after they had come when he fell asleep at the desk.

She settled for kissing his temple and whispering, "He'll come around. I know he'll come around."

* * *

The candle was burning low. Lucius squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a slight headache building behind his eyes from reading in the dim light. He expected Hermione to have complained about the lack of electricity by now, or to be so annoyed by it himself that he had it installed, but that hadn't happened. Lumos had become their guide in the dark hallways and rooms, and large, slow-burning candles worked to light whatever else they did after the sun set.

He closed his book and glanced at her. She had been relatively still for the last hour, her feet resting on his thighs as she studied for her Monday exam. Now he saw why; she had fallen asleep. The textbook was splayed open across her chest. Her pink lips were slightly parted as she breathed evenly.

A smile tugged at his lips. She was studying anatomy. It must not have been anything interesting or anything that she could use him to see. Last week, she'd charmed parts of his skin to be transparent so she could look at the muscles and tendons beneath. It had been very educational. Better yet, they had both had very much enjoyed the night she related the details of the reproductive system to him in a hands-on manner. He would not soon forget her breathy voice explaining the stages of the human sexual response to him as she evoked them.

But he'd best curtail that train of thought, because she was completely dead to the world. It was late and the only reason he wasn't tired was because of his three and a half hour nap earlier in the day. Sleep would be elusive tonight.

Carefully, he lifted her feet from his lap and set them on the couch. Then he leaned over to lift the heavy textbook off her chest. The urge to look through it was easily suppressed for the time being. He _was_ curious about the things she was learning; he had never made much of a study of the human body aside from how to best inflict pain. He knew how to make a person scream with one finger applied to the right place in the right way, but all things considered, that wasn't a particularly useful talent anymore. He wouldn't pretend that it hadn't ever been.

He would wait until she was done with the class. Then he would read his fill; he could control his curiosity until then. Mindful of his back (because he wasn't getting any younger), he gathered her sleeping form in his arms and carried her to the bedroom.

She didn't stir as he laid her down. She was already in her pajamas so all he had to do was remove her slippers. They were red and fuzzy and Musca seemed to have an obsession with them; as soon as they came off her feet, the kitten was upon them, chewing, biting, batting, and pouncing. Sometimes he did those things while they were still _on_ her feet. Hermione thought it was adorable. He just thought the feline was a few cards short of a full deck.

Sure enough, as the slippers hit the floor the ball of orange fur burst out from under the bed and attacked. Lucius rolled his eyes. Crookshanks seemed similarly nonplussed; the older cat briefly looked up from cleaning himself and then returned to his more pressing business. Now Musca was inside the slipper, wriggling and meowing vehemently. Lucius let his smile break free since Hermione wasn't awake. Whenever she saw him smile at the kitten, she chuckled and gave him this knowing look that was quite irritating in its smugness.

He pulled the blankets up around her. Then he just sat and stared.

As near as he could remember, he had done nothing in his entire life to deserve her. There was no rational reason for her to be with him. Each day he got to see her like this, he became more and more aware of how bloody lucky he was.

Yet he still hadn't found the right words, time, or method to tell her any of it. It irked him; he wasn't used to _not_ knowing what to do. This was an opportunity, though. This…

He leaned down over her, putting his lips against her ear. She was asleep. She wouldn't hear anything he said. It would be a good opportunity to practice.

He moved his lips. There. He could mouth the words. That wasn't so bad. Now he just had to force the air through his lungs. First, a test to make sure she was really asleep…

"Mudblood."

He braced himself for the slap that would surely come if she was awake. She didn't move. Truly asleep, then. He made a face; the word had tasted foul in his mouth. There was nothing behind it, of course. He'd only chosen that because it was sure to evoke a reaction from her if she was awake. Though, he rather thought it was the last time he'd ever use the term.

Assured of her unconsciousness, he took a deep breath.

"I…lo--"

At that moment, she lifted her hand, put it against his cheek, and pushed. He had been perched on the edge of the bed and found himself completely off balance. Lucius went tumbling off the mattress with a muffled curse.

Fortunately, he missed the slipper filled with wriggling kitten. He did not miss the hard stone floor. There was a moment of strong pain as his elbow connected with it. Pins and needles shot down to his hand, but that was the worst of it. Lucius spent a moment laying there, one of his ankles still resting on the mattress.

Then, with a grumble, he picked himself up. Hermione had shifted slightly but that was all. She was still blissfully asleep. Lucius shook his head and chuckled. The movement of his lips against her ear must have tickled her, and she had tried to remove the source of torment in her sleep.

He sighed and looked down at Musca, who had ceased squirming and now lay calmly on the floor.

"I suppose," he said, reaching down to briefly pet his strange familiar, "that today I am the fly."

* * *

He hadn't tried again. When the time was right, the words would come on their own and hopefully Hermione would actually be awake to hear them. Though his elbow ached, he sat at his desk and took out his parchment, ink, and quill. He wouldn't be getting to sleep anytime soon and he was tired of reading.

But, as before, the words didn't come. Soif was stagnant, stuck at an impasse that not even Hermione could remedy. For reasons he couldn't identify, he felt the same about the ending as he did about his eventual declaration of love. Both would come when they were ready to.

Ah, but what to do now? He tapped the quill thoughtfully against his lips. He was supposed to be a writer, and a damn good one if he believed what people said. That meant that he could write things other than just his own story.

If he really thought about it, he had been writing stories his entire life, just never on paper. He had spent hours daydreaming as a child, at home, at school, concocting people and places and events in his mind. It was that quality that had allowed him to plot so effectively when he was a Death Eater. Of course, those stories did not always play out according to plan, because he wasn't an omnipotent narrator and the characters weren't under his control…

He blew out a breath. Then he dipped the quill in the ink. And as soon as the first drop of ink soaked into the parchment, the words fairly exploded onto the page.


	22. Chapter 22

Author's Note: I'm glad that you guys weren't bored by the last chapter. You definitely won't be bored by this one. I did actually respond to all the reviews and then accidentally hit the back button and LOST all of them, and I'm so irritated right now that I am not going to do them again. (Grr.) But to address the main questions that came up, I chose Iceland because I really want to go there and figured I could live vicariously through Lucius and Hermione, hehe. No, the story is not over yet, as you'll see in this chapter. Thank you to everyone for your continued support and kind words. Please enjoy!

* * *

Another Saturday brought another therapy session. Lucius had begun to dread them. He knew it helped Draco but he wasn't entirely sure it helped him. He always returned home feeling worse than he had when he left.

He'd said something to that effect to the mind healer last weekend. Newbery recommended that he speak to someone else alone; the group process was different, and really, Lucius was only an accessory to Draco's therapy. While he was glad to be there for his son, he probably did need the individual attention that could be afforded by his own therapist. Newbery had offered to schedule him in but Lucius declined. If he was going to take that step, he didn't want it to be with someone who would no doubt be thinking about his son and their collective dysfunction as he spoke. He needed it to be about him and him alone.

He was considering it. Lucius knew that he sometimes needed a little time to warm to new or risky ideas. Perhaps in another week he'd grow to like the possibility and he'd seek out someone to attend to his needs.

Until then, he was here. He wanted to be, but didn't want to be, and the conflict was making him cross. He could tell from one look that his son was also cross, though he couldn't begin to guess his reasons.

Draco shifted in the chair and reached into his pocket. He extracted a piece of parchment that was folded four ways and appeared battered and creased. He had been carrying it around for a long time. It was his question sheet.

That first day, he had discovered that Draco had created a list of questions he wanted to ask. Each session, they tried to address at least one. Most of them had been simple and easily answered. Nonetheless, some of them rankled Lucius; they were things that should have been obvious. Of _course_ he loved his son, of course he was proud of him, and of course he would support him in whatever path he chose to take. He supposed he hadn't done a very good job of expressing those things if Draco had to ask. What rubbish he was as a father.

He didn't know how long the list of questions was, but he had the feeling that the further down they got, the worse the questions would be. They would get harder and harder and Lucius prayed to whatever power existed that he would be able to answer them satisfactorily. As many points as he got for attending with Draco, he knew that much still hinged on the way the next few months went…and how he answered those questions.

He had made up his mind that first day not to lie. It was a skill and a tactic that was best saved for when one really needed it. Hermione would argue that he never needed to lie, or at least she might have once; he knew she would find the flaw in her own argument soon. Potter and Weasley, once they became bored enough to wonder where she was or what she was doing, would ask questions and she would have to lie to them. She feared losing them too much to tell the truth. He didn't look forward to that day. As for him, well, if Draco asked him if he was seeing someone new, he would say yes…and pray that he asked no more.

Across from him, Draco unfolded the sheet and nervously smoothed it. A powerful, jolting memory hit Lucius then, of a nine year old Draco who had written a poem. The boy had harassed him and Narcissa all day, wanting desperately to read it to them, and when the time finally came after dinner and he had his parents' devoted attention, he had suddenly turned bashful. The face he was making right now was identical in spite of the extra eleven years that had grown upon it. As he had said then, Lucius prompted gently,

"Well, go on."

Draco took a steadying breath. He looked down at the paper and didn't look back up when he spoke next.

"Did you cheat on Mum?"

Lucius noticed that as intently as Draco was looking away from him, Healer Newbery was looking _at _him. He really did not enjoy being watched like that.

"No," he said anyway. "I was never unfaithful to her."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"I suppose you don't, short of me taking Veritaserum. Though you have believed my answers to the other questions without proof…why not this one?"

"This one's not about me."

"Of course it is."

"No, it isn't," Draco huffed. "How am I supposed to believe that there wasn't someone else? You would disappear for hours, sometimes days. Mum said you lost all interest in her. It broke her heart, you know!"

Lucius took a deep breath and willed himself to be calm. "There was no one else."

"That's almost worse!" Draco snapped. "I could understand if…if…there was some other person and you fell in love, or something, or…I don't know…but you just stopped caring!"

"I didn't stop caring. Your mother…I will always care about her."

"You have a funny way of showing it."

"Until you have been married for twenty-five years to someone who was chosen for you, not by you, I don't expect you to understand." Lucius narrowed his eyes slightly. "It doesn't matter what I say, anyhow. You want a reason to hate me, and you're running out of reasons."

"Mr. Malfoy--" the healer began.

"Don't think I don't know," Lucius interrupted him. "Don't for a moment think that I don't know how to justify hatred."

"I'm not--" Draco protested, his face flushing with anger.

"You are, and let me tell you, it's stupid. If you need to dig for a reason, you don't really hate whatever it is you think you hate." Lucius closed his eyes. "Hate is visceral. Uncontrollable. A petty transgression is never enough to generate it, and neither is an idea."

"Oh, you're this fountain of wisdom now, are you?" Draco shot back coldly.

Lucius sighed. "All I am saying is that you should save your hate for someone who really deserves it."

"You think you don't?"

"I made mistakes. The last thing I ever wanted was for you to be hurt. If I could go back and somehow keep you from ever being involved in any of this, I would." He fixed Draco in a powerful gaze, one he knew the young man would be cowed by simply because he was his father. "Is my regret not enough for you? Because if that is the case, we should stop right now."

Silence filled the room. It was thick, charged, and filled with unbearable tension.

"We've gone off topic," Healer Newbery said quietly. "Draco, you're obviously bothered by your parents' divorce."

"Damn right I am," he said, glaring daggers at his father. "She suffered for you. She withstood all the shame and mocking when you went to prison. She stood by you even though she thought you were an imbecile for going back to the Dark Lord. She dealt with all those Death Eaters in _her_ house, same as you. Through everything, she never once wavered in her support. She might even have saved your cowardly ass that final day of the war." His voice was rising steadily. "This is how you thank her? By ignoring her? By leaving her?"

Lucius tried to control the tremble of rage that wanted to shake his body. "Do _not_ call me a coward."

"Why not? You were sitting safe and cozy in Azkaban most of the time, weren't you?"

"Safe and cozy?" Lucius thundered. "Do you think it was some kind of vacation? You have no idea what was done to me in that prison. You don't know how powerful the temptation was to end my own life. _That_ would have been cowardly." His nostrils flared and his chin lifted in a familiar movement. "And you, Draco, are you so inspiring in your bravery? Half the reason you are here is because you can't stand the knowledge that you didn't have the courage to fight him."

"If I had done anything, he would have killed you and Mum!"

"And if I had done anything, it would have had the same result! Don't try to make yourself out to be different. Your fear is not _better_ than mine!"

"Gentlemen!" Healer Newbery barked. "I think it's time for a break. Draco, count to ten. Lucius, please step out and do the same."

* * *

He could have counted to a billion and it wouldn't have made a difference. He was angry in a way that he hadn't been in months. The last time he'd been this upset, it had been right after he found his book in his dead mother's library. Lucius willed himself to breathe.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and tried to calm himself. His hands were trembling where they hung in the air. How could he make Draco understand anything? It wasn't possible without revealing things he could barely speak of out loud to himself, let alone his son.

The door opened and Healer Newbery beckoned. Ignoring the alarm klaxons in his head, Lucius stood and stiffly walked back into the room. Draco was still in the same chair, his arms crossed over his chest and his face tense with controlled anger. Lucius supposed they were very much alike, for his posture was often the same when he was in a mood.

He sat, consciously trying to prevent his body from curling in on itself. It wanted to with a force that was difficult to resist. Gripping the chair arms afforded him some way to disguise the tremor that still wracked his hands.

The healer looked back and forth between them. "Are we ready to proceed?"

Lucius gave a curt nod even though he would rather be anywhere else. An interminable minute later, Draco also nodded.

"Then we'll have some ground rules. You two obviously have a lot to say to each other, but let's try to do it without insults or yelling. Try to talk about how the other has made you feel, rather than what they are. Agreed?"

Both men nodded once more.

"All right. Is there anything more that either of you would like to say in relation to Draco's question, and _only_ that question?"

Draco was silent. Lucius contemplated him. His eyes had gone steely and flat and his posture was closed; he was entirely removed. Things couldn't end like this. He couldn't let his son slip away because of his parents' failed marriage. That was far from Lucius's greatest downfall and he refused to lose something so important because of it. If he was going to lose Draco, it would be because of the truly awful and stupid things he had done, not because he and Narcissa had grown apart. His only option was the truth, or some version of it.

"If you truly want to know why I left, you'll have to accept some more bad news," Lucius said softly.

"What?" his son bit off. "You've discovered that you're gay?"

"I wish it was that simple."

"Well, what is it then?" he demanded.

Lucius took a breath. He was really going to do this. "When I was in Azkaban…I was…" Well, many things happened to him in Azkaban. But the one that Draco needed to know was best phrased in a way he could understand. "I was cursed."

"Cursed," Draco repeated.

"Yes. Fatally."

His son's arms unwound. "What?"

"I was cursed by Mulciber and your Aunt Bellatrix."

Now Draco had moved so close to the edge of his chair that he was in danger of falling off. "What? But why…I don't…"

"You shouldn't need me to tell you that your aunt was insane. For many years, she believed that we were in competition for the Dark Lord's affections. She was paranoid that he liked me better. I know that he didn't care for or about either of us, beyond what use we could be to him, but she couldn't understand that. She thought he loved her. Any time he showed favor to me, it was like a slight against her. After I fell out of favor after the Department of Mysteries incident, she wanted to eliminate her competition entirely."

And that was the truth. Mulciber had gleefully monologued to him in his cell after subduing him via head trauma and tying him to his cot. Bellatrix had wanted to dishonor and kill him, and her twisted mind had come up with something quite fitting. He didn't know where she had read or heard of HIV but it must have seemed perfect to her. It was the disease of filthy muggles in her eyes, one that sullied the blood and would shame a pureblood wizard to the extreme. She had procured a blood sample that contained the virus and then passed it on to Mulciber with the promise that she would break him out when the time was right. The hulking Death Eater was only supposed to corner him and inject the diseased blood. However, Mulciber had taken it upon himself to convey the virus by other means. Namely, by injecting _himself_, waiting for the disease to develop, and transferring it to Lucius by the more common route.

He directed his mind away from the memories of what had taken place after Mulciber finished his monologue. Draco didn't need to know details. However, Lucius could be grimly satisfied that Mulciber had never made it out of prison; the disease had claimed him with a furor and a virulence that killed him in a manner of months.

That was, in part, what had caused Lucius to expect a quick death. He'd been well on his way until he was broken out of prison. Then he had finally had the ability to seek help. The wizard healers didn't know what was wrong with him and he ended up with a slew of antibiotics, vitamins, and immune boosters. They kept him alive until the end of the war, though he couldn't ever remember having more colds, sore throats, and general malaise as he did then. Most had just believed the poor health was leftover from the chill and malnutrition of Azkaban; ironically, Rodolphus Lestrange (oblivious to his wife's bitter hatred) had given him the recipe for a variation of Pepper-Up that made it possible for him to function in spite of the almost continuous illness.

After the war he had finally been able to make a trip into the muggle world to find out in more detail what HIV was. The understanding he'd gotten from Mulciber's long-windedness was basic at best; if Mulciber had truly comprehended what he was dealing with, he might not have been so eager to inject himself.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Draco's voice was quietly stunned.

"I didn't want to add to anyone's troubles. At the time, I didn't fully understand it. And how could I tell your mother…it was her sister? She was a loon but your mother still loved her."

Draco was struggling. "She was in the house…all the time. Every day. Right there."

"Yes."

His son rubbed his hands over his face. He obviously understood why Lucius couldn't do anything; Bellatrix had been the favorite that last year, and to do anything against the Dark Lord's favorite (especially when you were already in disgrace) was a one-way ticket to torture and possibly even death. That, combined with the fact that she was his wife's sister, meant he could only sit there, hands tied, and let her gloat.

He would be lying if he said that hadn't been a powerful motivator in his survival. He was sure he could have rolled over and given up; death would have claimed him if he let it. But each day he had to face Bellatrix was another day he needed to get through simply to spite her. His life had become a dual project: save his family and stay alive long enough to see Bellatrix die.

"How much longer have you got?" Draco asked.

"I don't know. I found a healer who was able to create a treatment and it seems to be working for the time being." Lucius looked down at his hands. "All the time I was away, I was at the healer. I wasn't purposely ignoring your mother. You have to understand, Draco, that I was afraid I might pass the curse on to her somehow. The healer told me it was possible. By the time I began treatment, she was already accusing me of cheating and wouldn't believe my denials, and you wouldn't even look at me. I figured it was best that I just…stepped out of your lives after ensuring that you both had whatever you needed."

Draco was chewing the inside of his lower lip. Lucius recognized that behavior; he'd seen it a thousand times while lecturing Draco about something or other. He was trying to hold his tongue. It didn't usually work.

Draco gave up. He turned to Healer Newbery and said, "Can I hit him?"

"I don't think that's the most constructive--"

But it was too late. Draco had already crossed the small space and smartly backhanded him. It stung, but that was mostly because he hadn't expected it. Aside from that, he had taken worse hits in his time and knew it probably wouldn't leave much of a mark. He didn't feel any urge to return the favor because his logic sounded foolish even to him at the moment.

"Since when are you some kind of martyr?" Draco shouted. "Idiot!"

"Don't hit him again." Healer Newbery's wand was in his hand, the meaning clear. "And no name-calling." He sighed resignedly. "Feelings, not insults, remember?"

"Fine! You make me feel like you're an idiot!" Draco rephrased.

Lucius looked up at his son in wonder. The life had come back into his eyes; they were sparking, hot and angry, but somehow familiar. His pale cheeks were rosy with color, his lips pressed together in a snarling pout. It mattered. _He_ mattered. Gone was the cold shield of false indifference that Draco had been holding up for so long. This was real. Draco was angry _at_ him and _for_ him instead of just the former.

In the wake of his son's sarcastic ire, he did a paradoxical thing. He smiled, and then he laughed until his sides hurt.

Draco collapsed back into his chair. By the time Lucius's laughter tapered off, he was hiding a small, tired smile behind his hand. Healer Newbery looked like he had a headache.

"I think that's enough for today."

* * *

"Where did she put that damned bruise poultice?" Draco muttered to himself. The clink of bottles could be heard as he shuffled them about in the cupboard.

"It's fine, I really don't need it."

"Yes, you do. It's bruising. I didn't think I hit you that hard."

"You didn't."

Lucius examined his distorted reflection in one of the many antique mirrors Narcissa had felt the need to place along the mantel. He would not say what he thought in regards to her placing mirrors everywhere; it required no explanation. The old, smoke-dulled glass showed him a purple bruise blooming along his right cheek. Lucius frowned.

"It must be the potions I'm on. Perhaps they cause me to bruise easily." He had wondered why the knock on his elbow had spawned a bruise that contained every color of the rainbow and then some.

"Yes, I'm sure that's it," Draco responded with a roll of his eyes. "I found it." He placed the small jar in his father's hand and made a face as he examined the bruise he'd wrought. "I'm glad I didn't punch you. Imagine what you'd look like then."

Lucius shrugged and unscrewed the jar to the poultice. He wasn't a fan of it; it smelled overpoweringly of menthol. It could be worse, and the cooling sensation did feel good on bruises, but it stung the nose fiercely and served as a reminder of other times he had needed it smeared all over him. Gingerly, he applied it to his cheek. Bloody hell! Apparently the fumes stung more than the nose; his eyes teared up immediately and he squeezed them shut.

Fortunately, the poultice only took a few minutes to work. Then he was able to wipe the excess away with a cloth Draco offered and the sting was gone. So was the bruise, as if it had never even been there.

"There," Draco said. "Evidence destroyed."

"I shall find other ways to build my case for elder abuse."

The corner of Draco's lips quirked up. "You're in a good mood for a dying man."

"I told you, the treatment is working for now. It's only delaying the inevitable, but what use is there in being miserable about it?"

Draco disappeared in the cupboard once more to return the bruise poultice. When he emerged, his face was thoughtful.

"If Mum knew," he started, "don't you think she'd take you back?"

Ah. He knew that question was coming. Lucius smiled sadly. "Draco, I know you love your mother, but I don't think you understand her very well."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Lucius straightened one of the mirrors that had begun to tilt. It was a pretty thing, with Celtic knot work engraved around the glass.

"The next time you see her, Draco, tell her about Healer Newbery. Tell her you've been seeing him and that you want her to come with you. See what she says."

"She'd say yes. She'd say the same thing you did."

Lucius nodded, knowing it wasn't true. Then he reached for his coat. "I should go."

Draco was quietly mystified as he moved towards the floo. "Next week?" he said at last.

"Next week."

* * *

Draco dined with his mother that evening. His father's words had been rolling around in his head all day. Of course his mother would come to therapy with him. She wouldn't think he was weak or be ashamed of him. Would she?

"You're very quiet," she said, breaking through his distracted haze.

"Sorry," he replied. Draco frowned as he looked up at her. She was as dainty as ever, taking small bites of her dessert with an ornately rendered silver spoon. His own dessert was untouched, a sure sign of discomposure as he had a hell of a sweet tooth. "Can I ask you something, Mum?"

"Of course." She set her spoon down and looked at him attentively.

"All right. Well, I've been going to see a mind healer…"

"A mind healer?" she repeated, a slight edge to her voice.

"Yes. You know, to…talk about things."

"Oh, Draco, darling."

He wasn't quite sure what she meant by that but he plowed on anyway. "I was wondering if you would accompany me one day."

Narcissa looked uncomfortable. She fidgeted with the spoon.

"Draco, dear, do you really need to do that? Everyone knows mind healers are quacks. And if the media got hold of it…if they knew you were going to one, my goodness, there would be all these stories about how you were crazy, and I can only imagine how much time and effort it would take to salvage your reputation."

"Going to a mind healer doesn't mean I'm crazy," he replied, shocked by her words. "And he's not a quack."

"Of course not, honey, but if you're feeling down, why not just get some potions? Healer Fuchs would write some prescriptions for you, I'm sure, and it would be more discreet."

"It's not something I can just throw potions at." Draco picked up his spoon and stabbed at his dessert. "Forget I said anything, Mum."

Narcissa sat across from him, bewildered. She really couldn't figure out what she had done to anger him. Draco focused on his dessert, but the taste of the crème brulee barely registered.

_I know you love your mother, but I don't think you understand her very well._

He understood now. His mother was still more concerned about what others thought than living her own life. She would rather save face than deal with things that weren't easy or might reflect poorly on her. A mortally cursed ex-husband who she'd publicly accused of cheating on her and a son in therapy, _both_ former Death Eaters, were neither easy nor favorable for her appearance. Even if she had loved Lucius (and now Draco had his doubts), she wouldn't get back together with him, just like she wouldn't be caught dead going to a mind healer even if her only son begged her.

Draco sighed. It was all too clear that he and his father had changed. And his mother…well, she had stayed exactly the same, and that saddened him.

* * *

Hermione was folded into Harry's enthusiastic arms and she smiled. It felt good to see him after so long. Ron she could do without; she still didn't miss him, not after his exceptionally poor and hurtful handling of their breakup. Harry was a different story.

"Wow, Hermione, you look great!" Harry smiled.

"So do you! That Auror training has made you very strapping," she laughed. It had; Harry had always been fairly muscular but his biceps were nearly the size of her head now.

"Yeah, they really whipped us into shape," Harry agreed as he pulled her chair out. "You're so tan. You're glowing."

"It's faded a bit," she shrugged, "and it's mostly freckles!"

"I like freckles. They suit you." He fell into the chair across from her and gave her a roguish smile.

"Thank you. How's Ginny doing?"

"Well. She was so upset that she couldn't be here. But, you know, Bill and Fleur's baby should be coming any time now and Molly would have a fit if Ginny wasn't with the family."

"I can't believe they're on number two already. I wonder if Victoire will be jealous."

Harry chuckled. "We'll find out. Do you want some wine?"

"Please."

He filled her glass and his own. Their chatter was continuous, fluid, and easy; it was one of the things Hermione loved about the man Harry had become. They talked all through their salads, main courses, many glasses of wine, and even dessert. Then, at last, when they were both so full that they could hardly move, Harry began asking the questions she'd worried about.

"So, Hermione, where on earth have you been getting all that sun?"

"Italy," she replied, sculpting her melting ice cream into a cube.

He contemplated her. "Still? You must like it there."

"It's wonderful."

"Everyone was really surprised when you quit your job at the Ministry. What are you doing out there?"

"Going to university to become a healer."

"That sounds like the Hermione I know," he said with a smile. "I've come by your flat a few times and you're never there. Do you have a place in Italy?"

Slowly, she nodded.

"On your own?" he asked quietly. "Or do you have a roommate?"

The question was innocuous enough. However, she knew what kind of information he was fishing for. He wanted to know if she had a roommate of the male variety.

"As a matter of fact, I do have a roommate. Do you have a problem with that? Or should I say, does Ron have a problem with that?"

"Easy, Hermione," Harry laughed. "I'm not asking because I'm bothered by it. Whoever he is, he must be treating you well, because I've never seen you look so happy or so relaxed." He fiddled with his napkin. "As your best friend and the brother you never had, I'm accustomed to getting to approve these men, you know."

"You approved Ron," she said dryly.

He winced. "Point taken. I still want to meet this bloke, though."

Hermione breathed. Before her, two paths stretched. On the left, she could tell Harry that her paramour was Lucius Malfoy, and Harry would laugh and think it was a joke. Then, when he realized it wasn't, he'd either hex her or try to commit her to St. Mungo's. On the right, she could lie and everyone would be kept happy…except her conscience.

Harry was watching her intently, his green eyes warm and open. A spasm of pain flared in her chest. She didn't think she could bear it if he ever looked upon her with scorn, hate, or disappointment. Quite simply, that would shatter her. This dinner had served to remind her how much she cared for Harry and how much he meant to her. He really was her best friend, strange as it was.

"The thing is…" she started carefully, "he's…"

"He's what?"

She said the first thing that came to mind. "A muggle."

Understanding dawned on Harry's face. "Ah. He doesn't know you're a witch?"

"Exactly." Thank God for Harry's ability to jump to conclusions. Bolstered by his absolute trust, the story filled itself in easily in her mind. "I haven't figured out how to tell him yet, or if I even want to. After Ron, I don't want to jump into things, you know?"

Harry nodded. "I understand. I'll still want to meet him someday, though."

"You will," she said, plastering a fake smile onto her face, "when the time is right."

He grinned and let the conversation move on to other things. Hermione distractedly kept up with it. She felt strange and wicked. She had just lied to her best friend for the first time.

She hated it.

* * *

Lucius found her sitting morosely in the bath, knees against her chest and her chin resting on them. He took in her expression and instantly knew that something was bothering her. Without a word, he stripped down and lowered himself into the bath across from her. He mimicked her pose, staring at her. When she didn't speak, Lucius took it upon himself to make her smile.

"Musca brought me a present today."

"Oh?" she murmured, brushing a stray curl out of her eyes.

"Yes. It was a dead, half-rotted mouse. He left it right in my shoe."

That did the trick. Hermione smiled. "That's true love for a cat."

"If you say so."

She tilted her head slightly. "What did you do with it?"

"Gave it and the shoes an honorable cremation."

She smiled again, but it faded a moment later. "I lied today."

Ah. So that was the issue. "So did I," he admitted.

"What was your lie?"

"I told Draco that I was cursed to avoid having to explain HIV."

"That isn't so bad," she sighed. "Not that far from the truth."

"Maybe not."

"I told Harry you were a muggle and you didn't know I was a witch and that's why he couldn't meet you."

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "So he knew you were seeing someone?"

She nodded. "I guess it's kind of obvious. He said I was glowing."

"He should be happy that you are happy."

"He is. He wants to meet the man responsible, though. I just don't see how…" she trailed off and tears filled her eyes.

Lucius moved forward in the water, gathering her into his arms. "We knew this would happen."

"I know. I know. It's just…I've never lied to him before."

"Nothing you said will be harmful to him."

"I know, but he was so trusting. He believed everything I said. I'm taking advantage of him."

He cupped her chin. "You aren't." Lucius pressed a soft kiss to her lips. "Sometimes the people we love aren't ready to hear what we need to tell them. Until they are, we're left to relate a version of the truth. That's all it is."

"He'll hate me when he finds out," she sniffled.

"Maybe he'll never find out."

Hermione looked into his tranquil blue eyes. "I don't see how it's possible. Someone will see us together. I'll slip when I'm talking, or you will. Some random coincidence will out us. That's how it always happens." She shook her head. "I don't know if it's better for him to hear it from me or to be completely surprised."

He could only shrug. He had no insight to offer on the topic; he didn't care about anyone's reaction if they were discovered, save maybe Draco. His gut told him that Draco wouldn't understand his choice, but he would accept it. It was possible that Harry Potter wouldn't understand _or_ accept Hermione's choice. Though, if he was as good a friend as she seemed to think, he ought to.

"This isn't about Harry Potter," he said. "This is about you. You can't compromise on your happiness to protect his."

"I know," she sighed. "It's just difficult." She leaned forward into him and he held her until the heating charm wore off and the water cooled.

* * *

The morning was, by all accounts, a normal one. The sun came up, filled their bedroom with its weakening late autumn light, and a pair of orange cats were unceremoniously deposited on the floor when their respective masters decided it was a fine time to erotically smooth away the stresses of the day before.

She hadn't been a great fan of morning sex until Lucius. He consistently gave her the best wake-up calls in the world. This time was no different; the familiarity of his body's friction never reduced the thrill of receiving him, of weathering the surge of his hips and the pure sensuality of his moans.

Collapsing in post-orgasmic bliss beside Lucius and the feeling of rightness that aligned in her gut was enough to make her push the worries about Harry aside, at least for now. There was nothing wrong with her seeking her own happiness. Harry would agree with her as long as he didn't know the identity of the man who was providing it.

In time, they recovered and drifted into a Sunday routine. There were no plans save the usual dinner at Paolo's. Lucius spent much of the morning writing. She spent most of hers watching him and penning a letter to her mother. Her parents were quite content with her explanation of attending University in Florence. They had never felt the need to pry, even when she was younger. If they were to find out about her relationship with Lucius, they wouldn't protest beyond the worry of his age, because they knew nothing about him. How wonderful a blank slate was, sometimes…

She walked into her room, which had become more of closet since she essentially lived in Lucius's. A stamp was necessary; her parents had asked her if she could just send mail via Muggle post. They had never quite gotten used to owls delivering mail and she supposed that was reasonable.

As she was rummaging in her bag, a loud knocking could be heard. It was accompanied by a booming shout.

"Open up, Malfoy! We know you're in there!"

Her heart dropped like a stone.

"You have one minute to open this door or we blast our way in! The house is surrounded and your floo has been closed! You have nowhere to run."

Hermione's mind raced. What was going on? Who were these people? She started as Lucius was suddenly there, taking her hand and pulling her upright. His eyes were strained but already flashing with cleverness; he had a plan.

"Listen," he whispered harshly, "I put the manuscripts and my medications in the bottom right desk drawer. It is heavily warded. The password is _girasole_. Can you remember that?"

"_Girasole_," she repeated, nodding. "Yes."

"Stay out of sight. When we are gone, take everything of yours, _everything_, and go back to your flat. Take the manuscripts and the pills with you. And Jo-Jo, take Jo-Jo, also. It must look like I've been here on my own."

Her fear burgeoned. "Lucius, what's going on? Who are these people? Why--"

"FIFTEEN SECONDS, MALFOY!"

He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment. "There's no time." He leaned forward and pressed a dizzying kiss to her lips. "Don't come after me. I will take care of it on my own. _Promise_ me you won't try to interfere!"

"I can't just--"

"PROMISE me!" he demanded, his eyes sparking.

"TEN SECONDS!"

"Lucius…" was all she could say, torn. Tears filled her eyes. She wanted to promise him, really she did, but if he had taught her anything, it was to know what she was getting into and if there was a way she could help him, she wasn't going to rule it out. "I can't. I can't promise you that." The tears spilled over, streaking down her cheeks. "I love you!"

The color drained from his face. He reached out to stroke her cheek with a quivering hand.

"FIVE, FOUR, THREE…"

With a muffled curse, Lucius turned and disappeared down the hallway.

* * *

Hermione cast a Disillusionment charm over all of her things, locked and warded the door, and sat huddled in the closet with Crookshanks in her arms. The cat was still, his tail flickering in agitation. He, too, seemed to know that something was wrong. She could hear the sounds of many men shouting and moving about. There were a few loud crashes and she prayed to every deity there was that none of them involved Lucius.

In time, all was silent. She waited a long time just to be sure that she was really alone. Then, cautiously, she ventured out of the room.

The main part of the villa was in disarray. Jo-Jo stood among the debris, looking frightened and full of despair. The elf looked up as Hermione approached.

"They took Master Lucius," she said, her wide purple eyes brimming with tears. "They took him and Jo-Jo could do nothing. Master Lucius forbade her. He said not to let them see her."

"You did what he wanted, Jo-Jo," she replied shakily. "Who were they?"

"Aurors, Miss Hermione."

She sat down heavily. What in the hell? Lucius hadn't done anything wrong, not recently. What right did they have? Tears of frustration peaked in her eyes, stinging hotly.

Jo-Jo did the only thing that would comfort her; the house elf began to clean up the mess.

"No," Hermione spoke up, "don't do that. Leave it as it is. He wanted us to hide so that they would think he was here alone. If you clean up, they'll know someone else was here."

It looked as though Hermione was asking her to cut off her own arm, but Jo-Jo relented. She echoed Hermione's posture, slumping on the floor across from her. There they sat for a good long time, trying to make sense of it. That was when Hermione noticed the corner of the Daily Prophet peeking out from beneath Jo-Jo's foot.

She leaned forward to pry it from beneath the house elf. Once she realized what it was, Jo-Jo scrambled obligingly out of the way.

"Oh, fuck."

That declaration said it all. For, on the cover of the Prophet, a damning headline glared out at her:

**PATRICK NETHERWOOD, PUBLISHER OF 'FAIM', MURDERED!**


	23. Chapter 23

Hermione willed herself to breathe. She knew Lucius hadn't done it. However, if the Aurors found _any_ indication of Netherwood's clandestine dealings with Lucius, they would jump on it. He would be their number one suspect because of his checkered past. Not only would it look extremely suspicious, but it would point a very strong finger at him as the possible author of Faim, if it hadn't been proven outright already.

She tugged on her hair. She knew instantly that she could provide Lucius with an alibi. Veritaserum and a memory extraction could conclusively prove that Lucius had nothing to do with Netherwood's murder, but it came at a very great price. The only way to clear his name was to reveal their relationship.

No wonder he had tried to get her to promise not to do anything. It wasn't shame or selfishness on his part, though she might have interpreted it that way some time ago. Now she knew better. Lucius was trying to protect her at his own expense.

She hadn't made that promise. However, she had to admit that she was not ready for the entire world to know that she was deeply involved with Lucius. As he had said the night before, sometimes the people you loved weren't ready for the truth. If there was a way to avoid it…

But hadn't she just told him that she loved him? It came out of its own accord, free of any mental tinkering. She _did_ love him, Merlin help her, and she knew that even though he had not said it verbally, he felt it, too. The very fact that he wanted to spare her the media crucifixion that would be brought on by clearing him shouted that loud and clear.

She loved him. She loved every part of him, even his innate arrogance and his bizarre sense of humor…and knowing what she did, could she really allow him to be sent back to Azkaban, a place of so much suffering? She knew that people could not be held there until after they entered their plea, but the Wizengamot was probably tripping over itself to convict him whether he'd committed the crime or not. She wouldn't put it past them to overlook procedure.

Loving a person was not just racing to their rescue, though. It also included respecting their wishes even if they seemed nonsensical. Lucius was extremely intelligent and unspeakably strong. If anyone could figure out what had happened to Netherwood, it was Lucius. Once he did they would have no choice but to let him go.

It was colossally difficult to suppress her Gryffindor instincts. If she wanted to, she could be at the Ministry in under five minutes and she and Lucius could be back here, together, by tonight. He would be angry with her. The _world_ would be angry with her. But Lucius would be free, innocent, and safe.

Did she care more about that than she did about the other people in her life? Would she be truly happy having saved a man who didn't want it, not at the price it was offered for, while simultaneously ruining her place in the wizarding world? Was Lucius really all that she needed?

Hermione had no idea. Pop culture wisdom said that all she needed was love, but it never specified what kind or in what quantity. She had always prided herself on _not_ being one of those women who gave up everything for a man. Did it make her weak or selfish or terrible to not want to lose the few friends she had?

Pacing, she found some sort of compromise. For now, she would act in accordance with Lucius's request. She would disappear from this place and not interfere. But if he had not found a way to extract himself from this mess in a week, she was going to walk into the Ministry and do it for him.

* * *

She scoured the villa from top to bottom, removing anything that could indicate the presence of another person. A very thorough cleansing charm, cast liberally by both her and Jo-Jo, removed any and all physical evidence. She went so far as to banish the linens for the second bed. If he was there alone, what need would he have for a guest room?

Once her presence had been erased from the house, she approached the desk. The magnificent wooden thing had been scratched and the drawers yanked from their tracks. All except that bottom right drawer…

The Aurors would have noticed. They were probably contacting a Curse Breaker at this very moment. Hermione knelt down and pointed her wand at it.

"_Girasole_," she whispered.

There was a faint whispering sound and a brief pulse of light as his wards dissolved. She tugged at the handle once they were gone. Packed tight inside the wooden drawer were his multitudes of pill bottles, and beneath them two fat stacks of parchment.

She tucked everything into her backpack. Then she re-closed the drawer. She wouldn't recast the wards since she didn't know the ones he had used anyway. Instead, she cast a sticking charm. The Aurors would feel mighty stupid when the Curse Breaker informed them that there _were_ no wards and it was just a case of an old, sticky drawer.

With one last sweep through the house, done as if it was some hotel she was leaving, she confirmed that no one, magical or otherwise, would ever be able to conclusively state that Lucius had any company here. There were a few loose ends to tie up, though.

Hermione shrunk everything down into manageable loads. Together, she and Jo-Jo apparated to her flat. She gave Jo-Jo strict instructions not to answer the door or in any way reveal her presence until she got back. The elf was more than happy to obey. Hermione's last glimpse before apparating back was of the little creature cuddling Crookshanks, who was nearly as big as her.

* * *

First was the matter of Musca. She wasn't sure if she should bring him with her or allow him to return to the world of a feral cat. He had never truly become a tame indoor cat, though he would often sleep inside with them at night. Still, for a large percentage of the day he was nowhere to be found. That was in marked contrast to Crooks, who spent 70% of the day in one spot, usually the piece of furniture that received the most sunlight.

She couldn't find the orange furball anywhere inside. He had probably been spooked by the cacophony of the Aurors. Sure enough, when she finally did locate him, he was in the courtyard drinking from the rainwater that had gathered in the deactivated fountain.

As she had once before, she let Musca make the decision. When he was finished with his drink, he eyed her outstretched arms with disinterest and jumped back to the ground. The cat then loped off into the browning grass. Hermione wasn't surprised. If they made it back, Musca would find his master again.

One loose end tied, two to go. Next were Paolo and Elisabetta. She pondered how best to keep them quiet without arousing suspicion. There was little chance that the Aurors would think to question anyone in town, but if they did, the Muggle couple could unintentionally reveal them.

She sighed. It wasn't just Paolo and Elisabetta. Lucius had been seen around the town by many people. He had also been seen with Hermione at the party. She couldn't ensure the silence of all those individuals. That level of magic was beyond her.

She settled for honesty. While clutching Elisabetta's hands, she told her how Lucius had become embroiled in a legal mix-up (because that was really all this was) and that they were trying to solve it without revealing their relationship because there was a possibility that it would not be well received. She begged the woman not to mention her if anyone came around to ask about Lucius, and also to limit what they had to say about him to basic recognition.

"What do they think he did?" Elisabetta whispered.

Hermione winced. "They think he killed a man. He didn't do it. He was with me when it occurred. But I can't tell them that, because if I did they would know…"

She frowned. "Why would your relationship be scandalous? Neither of you are married."

"Put it this way…my friends and family hate him, and his hate me. If people knew…we would both lose everything."

"You wouldn't lose each other."

"I guess we are crazy enough to think we can have the best of both worlds," she sighed. "If there's no other option, I will go and break the news. I won't leave him to be wrongfully accused for the sake of my reputation."

Elisabetta thought for a long moment. "What if Paolo and I say he was here, whenever this murder took place?"

Hermione shook her head. "No. I don't want you to have to get involved." It was a good idea, but they didn't have the memories to back up the claim, and the Aurors would be sure to look for solid proof. Plus, the notion of Lucius spending time with Muggles would never be believed, anyhow.

"It is no trouble," the Italian woman said. "He is our friend. If you say he's innocent, he's innocent in our eyes."

"They'll want proof, and there isn't any aside from your word. It's too risky for you." If there was any way to work it, any way at all…but there wasn't.

"Very well. Luciano is one of us now, as are you, and we won't help any fool who wants to harm either of you."

Hermione sagged with relief. "I'm sorry to even have to ask you this."

"It is nothing." Elisabetta smiled warmly. "Now go figure out how to clear him."

She hugged Elisabetta fiercely. "Thank you."

* * *

One more loose end, and that was Tiresias Smythe. A thorough search yielded where she could find him. He was based in Vancouver, of all places. No wonder Lucius's visits had been so time-consuming. That was a long trip no matter what the conveyance. Even the floo had to be draining.

It made Smythe's semi-regular visits even more exceptional. Anyone else would probably have tried to avoid that kind of travel. He had been a less frequent guest lately; they hadn't seen him since his trip to discuss medical schools with Hermione. Naturally, he had wanted her to go to his alma mater and promised a glowing recommendation. She still hadn't made her choice, but that was all right because she didn't need to for a few more weeks.

She wondered if his paging device would pick up her call if it came from a floo other than Lucius's. It was worth a try. If it didn't work, she would just have to go to Vancouver. Crouching before her fireplace, she grabbed a handful of the infrequently-used powder and tossed it in.

"Tiresias Smythe!"

Silence. After a long minute, she was ready to give up. Hermione was already looking for something to turn into a portkey when the fireplace sputtered to life.

"You rang?" A pause. "Hello? Hermione?"

She jogged back into the small living room and dropped into a crouch in front of the fireplace. "Sorry, I wasn't sure if it would work from here."

"Where's here?" he asked, looking around.

"My flat in London."

"Is everything all right?"

"No. I need your help. Can you come here?"

"Certainly," Smythe murmured. "It's not as if I have a life to lead." He said it with a fond resignation. "Step back, I'm coming through."

He did a moment later, nearly cracking his forehead on the low lip of her fireplace. Fortunately, he reacted in time to avoid any serious injury. He brushed some stray ash from his shoulders as he straightened up.

"Where's Lucius?" he asked.

"That's why I need your help." Hermione pointed at the couch. "Sit down."

Taking in her stern command and apparent lack of any humor at all, Tiresias Smythe figured out that he was about to hear something he wouldn't like. He sat down. And as it turned out, he heard _several_ things he didn't like, because Hermione told him everything.

* * *

Lucius felt incredibly serene. Odd, considering he was in the same dark, claustrophobic interrogation room _again_. The only difference this time was that he was entirely innocent.

He wasn't sure if his calmness would make him seem more or less suspicious. Many people believed that anxiety betrayed guilt, but many also believed that anxiety was normal when one was being accused of a crime he didn't commit. On the other hand, only an innocent man could be calm because he was certain of his faultlessness. Either that, or the calm was a sign of absolute indifference and would paint a portrait of him as a cold-blooded killer. He really couldn't win.

Still, he couldn't _make_ himself upset. He could act that way, though. Perhaps he would if he was able to get a read on the Aurors who would be interrogating him.

If he was honest, he was upset, but not for his own sake. He was very, very angry that Netherwood had met the fate that he had. He had counted the man as a friend. His death either meant that his friend had been attempting to sell him out and had violated one of the restrictions of their Unbreakable Vow, or that someone else had been so eager to discover the identity of Faim's author that they would kill for it. Neither was a palatable option but Lucius hoped for the latter. That made Netherwood a true victim and it meant that there was someone out there who would suffer for his death.

He was a good listener when it suited him. Since they hauled him in, he had tuned his ears for any clue he could get about the murder. So far all he could gather was that it had taken place in Netherwood's office; still, there had to be enough evidence for them to consider it a murder. He just needed to know what that evidence was. Then, perhaps, he could begin to do the Aurors' job for them and piece together what had really happened.

Somehow, they had figured out that Netherwood was his publisher. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. They had been very careful to avoid similarities to the other things he published, even going so far as to create a dummy publishing company. Patrick had handled everything by himself. No one else was involved. The only link could be the banks.

Creating a dummy corporation was one thing. Creating a false identity, a true John Doe with a Wizarding Identification Number, apparition license, school diplomas, and all the other documents necessary to be considered a real person, was another. Netherwood hadn't wanted to open that can of worms and while Lucius knew that was reasonable, he also knew that he should have pushed for it more. As it was, Patrick had used an alias, but one that was traceable to him if the seeker looked hard enough. Because of that, it would be easy to trace the sales from Faim to Netherwood's secondary account.

What wouldn't be easy was cracking the will of the bank officials when it came to confidentiality. They got the customers they got because of their promises of discretion. Any breach of that would reflect poorly on them and cause them to lose business. However, when the Ministry came knocking with a warrant, they would provide names and addresses; selling out a client was better than being closed down by the government for noncompliance.

Lucius knew the legal system and he knew it well. He had to, or else he would not be a free man today. If a Ministry official, or even someone pretending very convincingly to be one, dreamed up some reason for obtaining a warrant and found a senior Wizengamot member dumb enough to issue it, they would be led straight to Netherwood.

The only thing he could think of was that they could accuse Netherwood of being party to the crimes outlined in the book. It didn't matter that no one was sure if the book was fact or fiction; the possibility of finding a link to three heretofore unknown and unsolved murders was enough to get the Aurors going. Lucius harbored no delusions that what he had done in his early twenties _wasn't_ murder. However, there still wasn't a single shred of his heart that felt any guilt. Those men were monsters, just like the one who had so irrevocably damaged him. The world was well rid of them.

He had not just killed them. He had erased them. He was meticulous even in his madness. There were no bodies, no witnesses, and no memory of their existence. The few people that had the misfortune of being connected to any of them were Obliviated. So, too, were their victims; he spared them the memories that he couldn't spare himself. In the absence of all those things, there was no hard proof that there had been any crime at all.

Save what existed in his memories, of course. He had taken the care to cast an Amnesiac Charm on himself. The charm was considered dark, volatile magic and the average Auror didn't even know it existed. Dangerous as it was, it was highly useful; if he was questioned on the murders, the charm would go into effect and block any memory associated with them. It was a dangerous thing to do to anyone, especially oneself, and that was why it was rarely used; the risk involved was too great. He was well aware that he could have landed himself in St. Mungo's. The beautiful thing about an Amnesiac Charm, though, was that once the inquisition was over, the memories would return.

His insanity aside, he wondered if he was right. If the Aurors had traced Netherwood from the bank account under the premise that he knew something about the possible murders mentioned in the book, how had that resulted in his death? Perhaps they had forced him to talk. Veritaserum could have made him break the Vow and resulted in his death. But then it would be the fault of the Aurors.

He narrowed his eyes. Were they trying to cover it up? Frame him, make him take the fall because of some convenient piece of evidence Lucius didn't know about? That was mighty corrupt. Not that he had any room to talk, having gone to such lengths to murder people without consequence.

There had to be something to connect him to Netherwood. He burned to know what it was, but he was certain they would reveal it. The interrogators lacked subtlety. They wouldn't realize that they had more power over him if they kept him uninformed. No, these men would rush in and try to force him to confess because of whatever evidentiary trump card they held, and in doing so, reveal that evidence to him.

What were they waiting for, anyhow? The longer he sat, the better he could plan. If they let him go much longer he could complete the circle and get down all the intricate little details of his story. Lucius rubbed his hands over his face. He hoped that the delay didn't mean that Hermione had rushed to his rescue.

* * *

Kingsley Shacklebolt stood on the other side of the two-way mirror, watching Malfoy as he sat and thought. He was very calm. He looked more impatient than anything else. That wasn't the behavior of a man who feared a return to Azkaban.

He knew that Lucius feared it. The former Head Auror and current Minister of Magic knew better than anyone else just how much Lucius Malfoy feared Azkaban. He had been instrumental in creating that fear.

He should have known that things weren't right. Malfoy was the one who looked like he had been mauled by a particularly vicious creature. Mulciber had his share of bruises, too, but nothing like Malfoy.

He should have realized that Mulciber had been the aggressor. At the time, everyone had been primed with hatred for Malfoy and it had been easy to overlook what was right in front of him. _He_ had put Malfoy in solitary, without treatment, without food, without water, until he had confessed to starting the fight. That confession earned him food and water.

He remembered it only too clearly. They had to drag him, because he couldn't walk. They had mistaken that for rebellion. The reality was that he had been assaulted so brutally that it was physically impossible to propel himself in any way other than crawling.

Malfoy had been subdued until he realized where they were taking him. Horror stories circulated around the prison about solitary confinement, and for the most part they were true. The people that were placed in there seldom made it out. Their minds snapped like old rubber bands.

He had fought, first verbally and then physically. He had begged them to give him Veritaserum, to look at his memories, because he wasn't the one to blame. Every argument had been sound and rational. The Aurors, Kingsley included, didn't want to hear it.

Whenever Malfoy's name came up, Kingsley had a difficult time quenching his guilt. There was no doubt in his mind that Malfoy had done some terrible things, but he had never deserved that treatment. Worse was the fact that he had endured it with a composure that few in his situation ever had. Most inmates screamed themselves hoarse when they were thrown in solitary. Lucius hadn't. He was quiet, so very quiet, until the fourth day without water drove him to falsely confess that he had attacked Mulciber.

Kingsley couldn't erase the broken look of him from his mind. His face had been purple and yellow with bruises, his lip split and still black with dried blood, and his eyes pained and beseeching. At the time he had been grimly satisfied at how pathetic Lucius looked.

The only sign that solitary confinement was getting to Malfoy was the advent of mindless self-talk. He would whisper to himself, sometimes things that were utterly nonsensical, and other times just one word – Draco. Over and over he repeated his son's name. Around week seven he began to rock and sometimes to repetitively tap his head against the wall; like everyone else, he became desperate for stimulation. It wasn't enough to hurt himself so they didn't interfere. But always, Draco, Draco, Draco…

Malfoy had been in solitary for nine weeks when he got the memo about Mulciber. The Death Eater was dying in the infirmary for reasons no one could ascertain. Now he wanted audience with Kingsley, ostensibly to confess to things he hadn't admitted at his trial. Kingsley went; the chance to give someone closure over a crime Mulciber might have committed was enough motivation for him.

What he found was a man so afraid of death and what might come afterwards that he actually believed that confessing to everything would absolve him, regardless of whether or not he felt any remorse. Though he itched to dispel him of that notion, Kingsley humored him. He had sat and listened, even helped him withdraw memories, until Mulciber had no more to tell.

It was his last memory – his last crime, perpetrated here in Azkaban – that sickened Kingsley the most. He had vomited up his lunch immediately after escaping from the pensieve. He could see even from here that Malfoy still bore a very faint scar on his lower lip, a slight discoloration that one wouldn't notice unless they knew to look for it. It hadn't come from a fist or any kind of blow. It had come from Lucius biting down to stifle his screams. He had every reason to scream.

That night two things happened. Mulciber died and Kingsley had the worst nightmares of his life. Whenever he closed his eyes, that memory replayed and the guilt renewed itself. He had punished the wrong man. He had blamed the victim. He was no better than Mulciber.

The next morning he got a report that Malfoy was showing symptoms similar to Mulciber. He went to solitary, and, swallowing his trepidation, he stepped in to see Malfoy. He was the first person the other wizard had seen in over two months.

Lucius had curled up against the wall, shielding his face with thin, trembling hands. The light was exceedingly painful to him after existing in pitch darkness for so long. Malfoy was dirty, smelly, and entirely disheveled. At some point he had made an effort to wash the blood away, but without light he had missed many spots. His clothing was a blood-stiffened mess abandoned in the corner. He was wrapped in the scratchy blanket, more as an effort to ward off the chill than to make any attempt at modesty.

He was delirious with fever. Kingsley was forcibly reminded of an animal that had just been shot; he was still, his sides heaving quickly but shallowly, waiting for death. He had declared an end to Malfoy's stint in solitary then and there and had him transferred to the infirmary.

The illness had afforded him the ability to remove Malfoy from the torturous confinement without having to admit to anyone that he had been wrong. It still ate at Kingsley. So did the fact that they had allowed him to be snatched out of the infirmary a few weeks later, and he knew it _was_ at least partially abduction, for he was still too weak to have left on his own. Malfoy had been dragged right back to the hive of demons that had so thoroughly destroyed him.

To this day, he was one of two people who knew the truth about Mulciber and Malfoy's altercation. The prison warden was the other. Malfoy had reached some kind of settlement with him after the war's end, the details of which Kingsley didn't know. Kingsley had allowed him to settle with the Wizengamot, as well, and that assuaged his guilt a little.

All that aside, this didn't make sense. The man he had seen in Azkaban was one who would never, ever do anything that could put him back there. Malfoy would not risk it. Nothing would be worth the mental torture of returning to the prison.

Feeling curiously like he was walking back into the solitary pit, Kingsley took a calming breath and moved to the door.

* * *

Lucius looked up as the door opened. At last. However, the person who came through the door wasn't who he expected. An innate hatred rose in him, that kind of blind emotion he had described to Draco just the day before. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Control was a virtue, at least when one was already in the den of the law.

When he opened his eyes, Kingsley Shacklebolt was sitting across from him. Being Minister had worn some new lines in his face. Lucius pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth and stared straight ahead, determined to ignore him.

"Say what you're thinking, Malfoy," the dark-skinned man said after a few solid minutes had gone by.

"I'm not sure your ego could take it," he replied through his teeth.

"You are one to talk about egos."

"Then here we are, _Minister_." He tapped his fingers to dispel some of the rage that was flooding his body. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but now that you have moved up the ladder, Auror interrogations aren't really your area of concern."

"I'm here to help you, Lucius."

"Oh, the way you helped me a few years ago?"

Kingsley hid a grimace. He should have expected that; Malfoy had every right to hate and mistrust him. He would have to do his best to change that. "I know you didn't do this, but I need proof. I need an alibi."

Lucius glared at him. "I was at the villa in Tuscany which the Aurors so adroitly destroyed."

"Alone?"

"Alone."

Kingsley sighed. "Nobody can vouch for you?"

"The nature of being alone is that there aren't other people around, yes?" he spat.

"It might be a good idea to shelve the attitude, Malfoy. People don't have the best opinion of you."

"Imagine that," he said bitterly. "Tell me, Shacklebolt, what thin slice of evidence do you have to warrant dragging me in here?"

"It's not so thin, Lucius. You wrote Mr. Netherwood a letter. A rather disgruntled letter. It seems you were…unhappy with something he had done. You tell me, Lucius, what link could you have with the publisher of Faim?"

The letter. The one he had written to Patrick after his indiscretion with the Critiquill magazine. Damn it to hell. Did the man not understand how vital secrecy was? He should have known better than to deal with a non-Slytherin. _Why_ hadn't he destroyed the godforsaken piece of parchment?

Still, it was nothing Lucius couldn't recover from. He had written that letter in very vague terms and that would work to his advantage.

"I assisted him in setting up the dummy corporation in order to be able to publish the book anonymously. I also helped with the bank accounts. He needed somebody who knew how to…cover things up." Lucius shook his head sadly. "Who better than me?"

"Why the letter?"

"He was being careless. I wanted him to create a false identity for the accounts, but he was worried about the legal ramifications. I was worried that he could be traced if he didn't do it. He just didn't understand how dangerous it could be."

"I want to believe you, Lucius, I really do. But how do I know you're not covering up this murder, too?"

"What reason would I have to murder him?"

"Perhaps he was trying to cheat you."

Lucius rolled his eyes. "Money is a motive you will never be able to establish when it comes to me, Minister."

Kingsley blew a sigh out between his lips. Lucius knew he had won that point, at least. The dark-skinned wizard looked at his folded hands for a long moment.

"And…there's no possibility…that you are the author of Faim?"

Lucius eyed him. Silence hung between the two men as Lucius decided how to answer that. At last he settled for, "Anything is possible, Minister."

Kingsley opened his mouth to say something; just as he was about to launch into the question, the door slammed open. Two Aurors barged in, clearly not realizing that the Minister of Magic was already in the room. One held what looked to be a straitjacket, and the other had an armload of suspicious looking potion vials.

Lucius bit his tongue. It was going to happen again. However much Shacklebolt played at being on his side, it was only a ploy to gain his confidence. He was no better than the worthless lumps of flesh that now stood frozen by the door.

Kingsley stood slowly and drew himself up to his full, intimidating height. Lucius focused on his breathing. He would not be afraid. There was nothing they could do to him that he hadn't experienced before…and he was still here.

"Gentlemen, what is the meaning of this?" Shacklebolt barked.

"He's dangerous, sir, you shouldn't be alone with him," the one holding the straitjacket said.

"Are you forgetting that I used to be Head Auror?"

"Um, no, sir, of course not, sir!"

"What are those potions?"

The two Aurors shared a look. The one laden with the vials spoke. "Just, uh, on their way down to the Department of Mysteries."

"Don't play stupid with me. I know what they are. Who authorized this?"

"H-head Auror Pell, sir."

"Did it occur to Head Auror Pell or to _you_ that Mr. Malfoy is innocent until proven guilty? Or that we have no proof of any wrongdoing save for an angry letter that is circumstantial at best?"

"With all due respect, sir, he is a Death Eater."

"I _was_ a Death Eater, you halfwit," Lucius growled.

"Quiet, both of you!" Shacklebolt thundered. "What are your names, Aurors?"

The two men shared another look – one of certain doom.

"Fratello."

"Tibbins."

"Well, Tibbins and Fratello, you are hereby suspended without pay until you attend a disciplinary hearing to decide whether or not your Auror licenses should be revoked indefinitely."

Lucius gave no sign of the absolute shock he was experiencing, save a slight raise of his eyebrows. The one called Tibbins wasn't bothering to cover his shock.

"He's a murderer and he belongs in Azkaban!" he exclaimed. "We were only going to give him what he deserves!"

At that moment, another very surprising thing happened. Three men burst through the door, flanked by a panicked secretary.

"I'm so sorry!" the flustered secretary said. "They wouldn't take no for an answer. I tried to stop them…"

"I am his _lawyer_!" one of the men shouted. He was an old, thin slip of a man, very tall, who looked so frail that he ought not be capable of the booming voice that came out of him. "Who received his client's notice a full four hours after it was sent due to a mysteriously Confunded owl! You had better believe I'll be filing a motion to dismiss! This is an outrage!"

"What the hell is that?" the second man demanded as he stepped out from behind the enraged lawyer. He pointed at Fratello, who still held the straitjacket.

"Mr. Malfoy, please calm down," Kingsley said.

"No!" Draco nearly roared, stalking forward. "My father hasn't done anything! You won't lock him up again!"

"Fratello, give me that," Kingsley demanded, holding out his hand. Hesitantly, the cowed Auror handed the garment over. Kingsley immediately incinerated it.

"And what about these?" the third man demanded, motioning at Tibbins. "What was your plan, use pain-eliciting potions until he confesses to a crime he didn't commit? It's lovely to know that your Ministry condones that. Who needs the Cruciatus when you have carte blanche?"

"It's not your business," Tibbins countered nastily.

"Tibbins, _get out_, and if those potions are not returned to where they came from, I will throw _you_ in Azkaban!" Shacklebolt said icily.

Tibbins didn't need any more prompting. He turned and fled. Fratello was hot on his heels. Kingsley sighed deeply. He felt the pound of a headache beginning behind his right eye.

"I'm sorry," he said, facing the third man, the one who spoke with a strange accent, "but who are you?"

"I am Mr. Malfoy's personal healer."

"I assure you, no damage has been done to your patient."

"I beg to differ, if Mr. Tibbins was in any way involved with his arrest," Tiresias huffed. He stalked over to Lucius and began to examine him. Lucius complied with Smythe's irritated prodding, still too surprised to speak.

"My _patient_, as you put it, has no less than eight fresh contusions. I would say your men were a little rougher than necessary when bringing him in," Smythe sneered.

He'd been scolded and even harangued once or twice, but Lucius had never heard that tone of voice from his healer. He wondered if it would have made a difference if he knew he was addressing Britain's Minister of Magic.

"That is yet to be determined. If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I will retrieve some _competent _Aurors to begin questioning. You have an hour."

Shacklebolt strode from the interrogation room, leaving the four men in the small, dark space. The door clicked shut…and the strategizing began.

* * *

Jo-Jo was cleaning her flat. Hermione let the elf go. She knew it was the only way that Jo-Jo could cope; besides, the flat was already looking ten times better than before.

She had tried to join in the cleaning, but Jo-Jo wouldn't have it. Sighing, Hermione wracked her brain for something to do. The waiting was driving her mad.

Her eyes were drawn to the bag in which she had stuffed the thick stacks of parchment that made up Soif and whatever other project Lucius had been working on. It was taking every bit of self-control she had not to take them out and read them both in entirety. He wouldn't know if she did, but she had promised him that she wouldn't read until he was finished. He'd made no such rule for the new thing he was writing…

She reached out for the bag, then halted. Damn it to hell. She drew her arm back. This was going to kill her.

* * *

Draco and the Malfoy family lawyer, Absalon Grier, were in the corner talking in hushed tones. That left Lucius and Tiresias in the other corner, supposedly under the guise of Tiresias healing his bruises. Smythe's eyes flickered to the other men briefly. Then he looked straight at Lucius and spoke in a whisper.

"Your pills."

Lucius looked down at his open hand. Good lord, did he really take that much medication? He usually took them one at a time, rather than preparing them all together, so he wasn't used to seeing the pile of pills. No sooner had he scooped them from the healer's hand than Smythe had a glass of water ready in the other one.

"Drink it all," he ordered in a low voice. Lucius had no trouble complying with that; he was dreadfully thirsty. "Good," Smythe said. With another uneasy glance at the other dyad, he continued. "We're going to have to let them know about your…curse. I won't have you missing these meds. You're doing so well."

Lucius frowned at him. He wouldn't have used the word 'curse' unless…

"You talked to Hermione?"

"Yes. She told me everything."

His stomach dropped. For a long time, he hadn't cared that he left Tiresias in the dark. The healer didn't seem to care, either; he was content with whatever information Lucius chose to bestow upon him when it came to his life story. However, that was before he had come to view the man as a friend. He felt strangely anxious.

"…Everything?" he asked softly.

"Everything she deemed necessary. I don't know if that's _really_ everything." He shrugged.

"I was…" he sighed, "well, you see how I'm handled, even now. I was worried that you wouldn't treat me if you knew."

"I'm a healer, not a judge." Smythe shook his head. "To know you now…I almost can't believe it."

"I was a different man."

Smythe sighed and rubbed his temples. "I believe you were." He smiled tiredly. "She misses you. She told me that if I didn't look out for you there would be unpleasant consequences."

That drew a smile out of Lucius for the first time in hours.

* * *

"This is so bloody boring," Ron complained.

Harry sighed. Ron was only stating the truth, but it didn't help things. He often wished his friend realized that complaining about an undesirable situation only made it worse.

They weren't making any progress. They had been excited initially when they had been chosen to participate in a real Auror investigation. When they found out what that investigation was, they'd been nearly delirious with joy. In their minds, there was no chance in hell that Lucius Malfoy was innocent. Harry and Ron had both flooed from training camp with visions of scouring the crime scene, breaking the case, and finally sending that old bastard to prison for good.

Instead, they were in some tiny Tuscan village questioning Muggles, of all people. They couldn't even wear their Auror robes. Harry thought the Carabinieri uniforms actually looked kind of dashing, but Ron was not sold. The redhead was in a foul mood overall and the uncooperative Muggles weren't helping.

Every single person they had talked to either shrugged and said they had never seen the man in the photograph (specially enchanted to be still) or mentioned that they had seen him about town, but knew nothing about him. It was odd that Malfoy would even bother to come into town, given that they were Muggles and everyone knew how he felt about them. It was probably only out of necessity.

"Why would any of these people know anything about him? He's likely to hex them if they get too close!" Ron seethed, kicking at a rock. They were approaching the last house on a long, winding road called Briatore.

"After this we're done," Harry sighed. "I don't think they expected us to find anything. It's just protocol. Someone has to do it."

"Yeah, give it to the newbies. Great preparation for the real thing."

Harry couldn't refute that. Still, he was glad that the trainers had felt that he and Ron were ready to be part of a real investigation, no matter how boring it was.

"I'll do the talking."

"Be my guest," Ron grumped.

* * *

Hermione had finally fallen asleep on the couch when Tiresias came through the floo. It startled her badly and she fell from the plush cushions with a yelp. Smythe just eyed her as she colored with mortification and picked herself up.

"So?" she demanded crossly.

"So, his lawyer is terrifying."

"I'd expect nothing less."

"He's terrifying but persuasive. Lucius has been declared a person of interest and placed under house arrest."

"House arrest," she repeated.

"Yes, at Malfoy Manor."

Hermione sank into the couch, almost boneless with relief. "How…how'd they swing that?"

"We had to tell them about the curse. I swore up and down that he needed daily medical treatment and that the conditions in prison would endanger his health."

She blew a breath out between her lips. "It'll be all over the papers tomorrow morning."

"I'm sure it will, but no one will know what it really is."

Hermione shook her head. "I wonder which story will get greater billing – the curse or the fact that he's a 'person of interest' in a murder."

"I guess we'll find out." Tiresias looked around the now spotless flat. "Where am I sleeping?"

"Guest room," Hermione responded. "Second door on the left."

When she looked in on him half an hour later, Tiresias was asleep facedown on top of the covers with every stitch of his clothes _and_ the light still on.

Sleep didn't come so easily to Hermione. Though she was exhausted, she couldn't turn off her mind. The good thing was that Lucius was not in Azkaban and not at the mercy of people who had already decided he was guilty. The bad thing was that he wasn't cleared yet.

She knew how quickly the Ministry could change its mood. If they were heavily pressured by public opinion, they would drag Lucius back in and she would have no choice but to show them all the truth. One truth was already being revealed; she was certain Lucius would hate that everyone knew how sick he was. He had accepted his illness but he was still a proud man.

After nearly an hour and a half of sleeplessness, she resorted to a potion. She couldn't risk being groggy tomorrow. Every moment would be a challenge, one she couldn't face if she wasn't well-rested.

She had to go to class in Florence. Though she had never been one to daydream in class, she knew the time had finally come. She would spend the entirety of the anatomy and physiology lectures trying to piece together the mystery of who had really killed Patrick Netherwood…and once class was done, she would begin her sleuthing in earnest.


	24. Chapter 24

Author's Note: Just letting you all know that I got a complaint about doing review responses in the chapter itself, so I will try my best to respond to them individually through the system, if there is a valid question or comment in the review. Now on to the chapter...it's a long one (20 pages!), so enjoy it.

* * *

As he stood in its dim corridors, Lucius wondered how the Manor could feel so different from the villa. It was as if the silence had more things to echo upon in this ancient house. In the villa the quiet rose up to the ceiling and stayed there, creating the illusion of being safely cocooned. Here in the dark and the hush it seemed to stalk him like some amorphous predator.

With a sigh, he raised his hand to knock on the door before him. He was still at a loss as to why he had let Narcissa stay here after the dissolution of their marriage. To a certain degree, he knew it was because she didn't want to return to her parents' home. Even when her parents were still alive, she had never liked to visit, and frankly he didn't blame her; anyone who had grown up with Bellatrix (and parents who thought Bellatrix was the pinnacle of what a good child should be) would certainly have some less-than-stellar memories.

It was not as if he was using the Manor, anyway. Once this was done, he was going to return to Tuscany as soon as possible. This place was just too damned heavy.

At that moment, Narcissa pulled open the door. She was in her dressing gown and her face betrayed an unusual surprise. She pulled the blue silk tighter around her.

"What do you want, Lucius?"

It was said in a crisp, business-like manner, but not a cold one. That was an improvement over the absolute scorn she had bestowed upon him the last few times he'd attempted to talk to her. He decided to match her distantly professional tone.

"There are some things that are going to be in the papers tomorrow and I wanted to apprise you of them."

Her face betrayed only a slight tic. He could tell from watching her that her mind was cataloguing the many possibilities of what he could have done to warrant media attention. He could also tell that she didn't believe for even a moment that it would be positive media attention.

"Very well. Come in."

He stepped over the threshold slowly. The room was foreign to him. It smelled of some subtle powder and floral perfume. It was done in light pastels, which were welcome against the heavy, dark wood…but it was the kind of decoration that seemed almost too light and like the room would evaporate into nothingness at a moment's notice.

She sat on the chaise at the end of her bed, legs crossed. It didn't escape him that she sat right in the middle; he had to stand or find another seat. He pulled over the small stool from her vanity and lowered himself down across from her.

"Do you want the good news or the bad news first?" he asked.

Her lips tightened. "Is there any good news?"

Against his better judgment, he smiled. "No."

"Then I suppose that decides it."

"Not quite. Best to worst or worst to best?"

"Worst to best," she sighed.

He wasn't entirely sure what she would consider the worst. This was somewhat arbitrary, then…

"Are you ready?"

Her spine was very straight. "Yes."

"Your late sister cursed me while I was in Azkaban and as a result I am dying. Not tomorrow, or even within the year, but it will catch up to me sometime."

Narcissa blinked. She clearly hadn't expected to hear that. After a long, shocked moment, she fussed with her hair unconsciously.

"Well…well, don't sugarcoat it or anything," she murmured sarcastically.

"I decided blunt honesty was the best course. My apologies."

"You are woefully out of practice when it comes to honesty."

He looked away from her and sighed. She wasn't processing the implications of what he'd just said. She was still stuck in her self-righteousness at thinking she was a wronged ex-wife.

"Narcissa, from the moment I got out of that prison, I was on the verge of death. I didn't tell you because I didn't know how you would handle the knowledge that it was your sister. I didn't want to add to our troubles or to give you any reason to hurt Bellatrix. That would have been the end of us."

"What curse was it?" she asked tightly.

"One of her own creation. It destroys the body's ability to fight off infection. The common cold or an infected paper cut could kill me."

Her face went pale. Now the dots were beginning to connect.

"You…you were always sick…"

He nodded.

"And you never got sick before Azkaban."

Lucius shook his head. That was the truth. Before prison, he hadn't had so much as a cold since Draco was young, and that was mostly because small children were germ factories.

She bit her lips. Then, in a small voice, she asked, "Is there any treatment?"

"Yes. I've found an excellent healer who devised one. For now, I'm stable. We don't know how long it will work, though. Your sister…tested the curse out on one other person before me, and he died rather quickly."

Narcissa was fighting tears. "Why would…why would Bella…she…"

Lucius kept his mouth shut. There was no need to make this worse by explaining exactly why Bellatrix had sought to remove him. Narcissa would figure it out herself, and even if she didn't, it had no impact on the sting of such a betrayal.

Very suddenly, Narcissa pounded her fist against her thigh. "I wish I could bring her back to life and kill her again! That bitch!"

"This is why I didn't say anything. I didn't want to upset you."

"I would rather have been upset!" Narcissa was on her feet now, fuming. "To think I ever felt any kind of gratitude toward her…I went out of my way to give her a proper burial, a real grave…"

"Not to change the subject, Narcissa, but I need you to understand that I was petrified that I could somehow pass the curse on to you."

Her eyes widened. "Is that possible?"

"Not as long as I'm sticking to the treatment. There _was_ no treatment until after the war, though. That is why I was so distant."

"And after the war?" she asked with a slight edge to her voice.

"I was looking for a healer who could help me. It took a while to find him. He's based in Vancouver."

"Canada?"

He nodded.

Slowly, Narcissa eased back down onto the chaise. "Are you attempting to tell me that when I thought you were out carousing with other women, you were actually being treated for a lethal curse by a Canadian healer?"

"That…summarizes it well."

She dropped her head into her hands and sighed. A second later, her chin shot up again.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded.

"I tried. You wouldn't hear it."

"Of course I would have!"

He contained the snort that wanted to escape him. "At the risk of being rude, I have to inform you that refusing to believe your husband when he tells you he isn't cheating means that you won't hear him out. I took a vow to you, Narcissa, one that I never broke, and if you wouldn't believe that, why would you believe that I was cursed?"

"What was I supposed to think?"

"I don't know. But really, I doubt there was a witch alive who would sleep with me after they finished dragging my name through the mud."

"Hmph," was all she said in response. Lucius was happy to leave it at that; her lack of argument meant that she accepted her own portion of fault for the way things had turned out. He probably should have forced her to listen to him…but at least she was listening now.

"To continue our inspiring conversation, I also have to tell you that I've been placed under house arrest because I'm a person of interest in a murder." He tugged at the leg of his pajama pants to reveal heavily warded metal shackle that rested around his left ankle.

"Good _God_, Lucius!" she exclaimed in an annoyed tone.

"I didn't do it. They'll figure that out. In the meantime, though, I'm sure it will be another mud-dragging frenzy. Fortunately, you no longer share my name, so you can stay at a distance and look down upon me if you like. I give you permission."

Narcissa rolled her eyes. "How kind of you." She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. "Is there anything else?"

"Just one thing. There are going to be rumors that I wrote some book that is connected to the murder."

His ex-wife snorted. "You? Write a book?"

"I know," he replied as he rose from his seat and made his way to the door. He looked back at her. Just now he was remembering how he had always liked the way color rose in her cheeks when she was perturbed. There was no harm in enjoying the tinge of crimson on her flawless porcelain skin, for he only enjoyed it aesthetically. His heart burned for someone else.

With one last glance at Narcissa, he said, "Ridiculous, isn't it?"

* * *

Hermione didn't go to class. She felt guilty and walked over to the floo nearly a dozen times, only to turn around and walk away. She was half-panicked; she had just gotten a letter from Harry telling her that he and Ron had at last been put on a case, and that case was the murder of Patrick Netherwood.

He thought she would be happy that Lucius was under investigation. In reality, the intersection of these two important parts of her life made her want to double over and vomit. That was how Tiresias found her a little after nine in the morning – leaning over the sink on the verge of retching.

"You had better not be pregnant," he muttered.

"Of course I'm not," she replied weakly.

"Good. That would mean that you either aren't using protection with Lucius or you're sleeping with someone else, both of which would earn you a very disapproving lecture and several uncomfortable medical tests."

"You're lovely in the morning."

"Do you have coffee?"

Hermione pointed to a cabinet. Smythe staggered over to it and located the coffee. He set it brewing and then leaned against the counter, eyeing her.

"All grumpy conjecture aside, are you all right?"

"Yes. Just…they put my best friend and my ex on Lucius's case and they both hate him. It will be their mission in life to put him away. How am I supposed to convince them he didn't do it without giving away our relationship?"

Tiresias shrugged. "Let the evidence speak for itself. The only trouble is that you have to find the evidence first."

"Do you think they'll investigate it fairly?"

"I think your Minister of Magic is pushing for it." The healer frowned. "He's hiding something. Something he feels guilty over."

"Kingsley?" Hermione said. "I was in the Order of the Phoenix with him. He's a good man."

"I don't doubt that…but from time to time even good men do bad things."

"I can't believe I'm about to say this, but if it works to Lucius's advantage, it's fine with me."

Smythe raised an eyebrow at her. "Stay there," he said. He strode out of the kitchen. A minute later, he returned with a pair of potions vials. "One for nausea and the other for anxiety."

She shook her head. "I don't like potions, they make my head fuzzy. I need to be able to think."

"You know what makes it hard to think? Panic and the urge to vomit." He summoned a pair of mugs and poured coffee into both. Her mug got the special treatment of two potions being unceremoniously dumped into it. "Now drink."

"But I don't even like coffee…"

"I don't care," he replied pleasantly. "Drink it."

* * *

It was strange to wake in Malfoy Manor. It had been nearly four months since he had slept here. He missed the simplicity of the villa. The stone walls were easy to look at in the morning, presenting a clean, cool slate for him to meditate upon until his brain kicked into gear. He had no such luck here.

What had possessed him to decorate (or approve someone else's decorations) in such dreary, light-sucking colors? They were rich and masculine but so oppressive. With the cloudiness that tended to dominate, he felt like a plant placed in the wrong spot; he could see the sunlight, knew it was there, but it never quite reached him. It had bothered him even before he left for Tuscany. The combination of grey and these heavy colors only brought down his mood.

He sighed and turned onto his stomach so he wouldn't have to look around the room that was no longer familiar. He had been sorely unprepared for just how much he detested waking without Hermione at his side. As he thought of her, a shot of relief coursed through him. It seemed that for the time being, she was doing as he had asked. He knew her patience had a limit, though. This had to be solved quickly or else she would out them.

A part of him was flattered that she would do it. The Slytherin part of him was at odds; it leaned strongly towards self-preservation, which was easily gotten if she revealed their relationship. However, it also leaned towards the protection of privacy and the almost unbearable need to keep her reputation intact. Little could be done at this point to make him seem worse than he already did, but it was within his ability to control how she was perceived. If there was a way to resolve this so that he would go free without the sacrifice of her good name, it would be perfect.

It remained to be seen if there was such a way. He had some ideas, though. They began with the editor of the Critiquill, Mr. Aloysius C. Pound. His open letter in the issue Patrick had sent was an expression of near-obsessive interest in all things Faim. Perhaps he had been willing to do almost anything to find out who the author was…

* * *

Hermione sat at her desk, trying desperately to think of a way to respond to Harry's letter. If she didn't control herself a dissertation in Lucius's defense would result. Harry would think that was strange and they would probably get in a fight over it. However, if she found _some_ way to indicate to Harry that he ought to quit judging and let the evidence decide who was guilty, he would write that off as Hermione being Hermione. The only trouble was how to phrase it without sounding condescending.

With a groan, she let her forehead drop onto the desk.

Breakfast was less somber than he expected. However, one family member was noticeably absent.

"Where is Draco?" Lucius asked, frowning.

Narcissa looked up from the Daily Prophet, trying but failing to remove the scowl from her face before she answered. He knew it wasn't directed at him. It was some kind of peculiar masochism to read the paper today and he had no intention of subjecting himself to it. He had a pretty good idea what would be said, anyhow.

"He's converted one of the bedrooms to a gym. He's in there."

He nodded. After observing his ex-wife for a few moments, he asked, "Why are you bothering to read that?"

Narcissa sniffed in disgust and folded up the paper. "So that I know who is on my blacklist."

Lucius chuckled and scooped food onto his plate, glad that he had made some kind of peace with Narcissa.

* * *

Harry opened the letter in the hopes that Hermione had responded in the positive for his lunch invitation. Harry figured that since they were in Italy, it would be a great opportunity to meet up. Not to mention a great opportunity to get his two best friends to exist in the same room together without killing one another, at the very least.

He wasn't optimistic that they would actually talk. Ron was still very angry about the breakup, and as blind as ever to the cause of it. He just didn't understand. Harry couldn't claim to understand the deep nuances of it, either, but he had always known that Hermione and Ron were from different planets.

He had realized from fourth year on that Ron was in love with Hermione. He hadn't expected Hermione to reciprocate at any point, but he was glad when she did, for there was nothing worse than watching a good friend suffer from unrequited love. What Ron didn't seem to grasp was how lucky he was that she had chosen him. He also didn't comprehend that a woman like Hermione required some level of work to _keep_. Ron thought that after winning the girl his job was done.

Harry knew how untrue that was. Ginny was the same type of woman. Perhaps she wasn't quite as brainy, but she was an intelligent, headstrong spitfire of a woman who lived life by her own terms and expected her significant other to accept that. He could never be complacent with her and he loved that. He needed someone to keep him on his toes; his entire life had been lived that way and he had no idea how to function without it.

What Harry knew (and would never say) was that Ron wanted and expected someone like his mother. Hermione was so far from the Suzy Homemaker type. She could and would do those sorts of things, but she didn't find them fulfilling. Harry wondered how Ron could be oblivious to that.

He had a tendency to be oblivious, as well, and if Harry knew Hermione well enough to recognize these things, then Ron ought to. But he didn't, and he continued to blame everything on her, loudly and to anyone who would listen. Fortunately, that group of people was small and ever-shrinking.

Harry was getting tired of listening to it. He'd told Ron on two occasions to shut the hell up; it was still his friend Ron was talking about. The first time Ron had been enraged that Harry was sticking up for her. The second he had just stalked away. Believe it or not, that represented progress in Ron's world.

Still, he wouldn't trade the impulsive redhead for anything. Ron had actually become rather quiet as they went about the next task, as assigned by the lead Auror on the case. They were searching Malfoy's villa.

It was quickly becoming as mundane as the Muggle questioning had been. The last house had yielded nothing, just a couple which eyed them suspiciously while they answered the questions. That was why Harry welcomed the sight of the owl swooping in with Hermione's letter.

The letter itself wasn't what he expected.

_Dear Harry,_

_I'm so excited for both you and Ron. It's great to hear that you're finally getting some real experience, and what a case to start with! It comes as no surprise to me that Malfoy is entangled in something like this, but I have to caution you. I know it's easy to assume that his guilt is fact. After all, we know firsthand what he's capable of. However, if there is one thing about Aurors that is very noble, it's that they treat everyone equally. If you don't allow even the very slight possibility that he's innocent to be part of your investigation, I worry that you'll end up finding what you want to find and missing something else that's very important to the case. I just don't want your investigation to be compromised, especially since it's your first one and everyone will be watching you. I know you'll do what's right._

_Let me know when you are available to meet up for lunch. I know you will probably want to bring Ron along. It doesn't thrill me, but I'll agree to it. I really hope that he is being a mature adult about things but if not, you tell him that I won't sit there and be insulted, so he should be ready to hold his tongue._

_When I hear from you I'll owl you a place for us to meet up. Good luck with the investigation. Remember to stay as objective as you can and make everyone proud!_

_Love,_

_Hermione_

Harry smiled. That was textbook Hermione. People told him that he had a hero complex, but he'd never be caught defending Lucius Malfoy. Hermione, on the other hand – well, she had a penchant for lost causes.

It was good advice, though. Objectivity was key in investigating crimes. His old memories and emotions could potentially get in the way of his ability to see the elements of the case clearly. In that kind of situation, it was expected that an Auror would remove himself from the case.

Harry didn't think he was at that point. He'd admit that the percentage of him that thought there was any chance of Malfoy being innocent was around 0.0001%, but even that was better than zero. For now, that was enough.

"Who's that from?" Ron asked, gesturing towards the letter.

"Hermione."

"Hmph. What did _she_ have to say?" He always talked about her like that now, with that accusatory tone.

"Just Hermione being Hermione," Harry responded.

Wisely, Ron held his tongue.

* * *

Draco looked around the bookstore. He had taken care to come to the one in Hogsmeade, rather than Diagon Alley. It wouldn't be as busy and fewer people would comment upon him purchasing the book the papers said his father could have written.

Draco's first instinct was to think it was completely ridiculous. He had never known his father to write anything. But then he remembered what had happened in therapy and how little he truly knew about the man. For Merlin's sake, he'd been suffering from a lethal curse in silence for more than three years. What else wasn't he telling the world?

That, he reasoned, was why he was picking the book up off the shelf. He had to know if it was even possible. He wasn't sure what he thought he'd find in the slender volume…but, he reasoned, he would know it if and when he saw it.

* * *

It shouldn't have surprised him that Lucius Malfoy read. What did surprise him, however, was the presence of no less than three Muggle books in the haphazard stack near the bed. Harry couldn't claim to be well-read in either the Muggle or magical world, but he recognized the Muggle classics. His aunt had always watched the made-for-tv movies or miniseries, as if that was somehow on par with actually reading the books.

There was Anna Karenina by Tolstoy. It was a monster of a book. He chuckled to himself; Hermione would probably call it 'light reading'. Then there was The Time Machine by Wells, which Harry had read in grade school not even a year before discovering that he was a wizard – and that time travel was actually possible. Most ironically, further down in the stack a copy of The Importance of Being Earnest by Wilde was in evidence.

Perhaps Malfoy had begun to thaw towards Muggles. The people in the town who said they had seen him indicated that he kept to himself, but never mentioned that he was rude or condescending. Now he was stooping so low as to read their literature. It was puzzling.

His clothing yielded more puzzlement. If Harry had been fashionably inclined, he would have seen the brief article in the wizarding world's most famous fashion magazine detailing how a growing number of purebloods were now beginning to embrace Muggle clothing – crowned with a picture of the Malfoys, junior and senior, in Diagon Alley wearing classic wool trenches. He hadn't seen it, but the evidence was in front of him now.

Shaking his head in bewilderment, Harry left Malfoy's personal things. Going through them gave Harry an uncomfortable window into Malfoy's humanity. The toothbrush, shampoo, and other everyday things served as a reminder that Lucius was just a man. Harry rather preferred the demon that stood residence in the back of his mind. It was easier to understand _him._

The arresting Aurors had made quite a mess of the villa's main room. Ron was picking his way methodically through one side. With a sigh, Harry resigned himself to sifting through the other.

They worked in silence for a while. For all that could be said about Ron, he actually seemed to be very meticulous while he was investigating. The desire not to miss something and blow the case was powerful, indeed. Harry forced himself to match his friend and partner's patience.

In time he fell into a focused rhythm. He didn't know how much time had passed when he found a thin magazine. It was pinned beneath one of the cracked, discarded desk drawers. Smoothing the cover, he read its fancy print.

"The Critiquill," he murmured. "For discerning readers of wizard literature." He flipped through a few pages. "Hermione would love this." Harry turned one more page, shaking his head. Then his eyes widened.

"Ron?"

His partner didn't answer.

"Oi! Ron!"

"What?" the redhead shouted from another room. At some point he must have finished what he was doing, unbeknownst to Harry, and moved on.

"I think I found something!"

"Me too, mate," Ron responded from the doorway. There was a pair of black lacy knickers in his gloved hand. "Either Malfoy likes to wear ladies' underthings, or he's found a bint stupid enough to shag him on at least one occasion. Did you find the matching bra?"

Harry chuckled. "No. But I did find an article in this magazine. It seems the editor of this Critiquill publication is a bit obsessed with discovering the identity of the author of Faim."

"Let me see that," Ron said. "Here, hold these."

Harry quickly pulled a glove on and took the knickers from Ron with a grimace. They at least appeared to be unsoiled. As Ron was skimming the article, Harry asked, "Where did you find these?"

"Pinned between the headboard and the mattress, all the way down by the box spring."

Harry turned his hand so that he could see the little tag on the indecent knickers. Agent Provocateur. "This is a Muggle brand."

Ron glanced up. "It is?" A slight crease appeared between his brows.

Harry nodded. "So, Malfoy either had relations with a Muggle or a Muggleborn who would know about the brand. Whoever she is, she could be a witness, or at least give us something to work with."

Ron frowned and closed the thin magazine. "I hate to say it, but I think we have to get this Aloysius C. Pound character in for questioning, too. This article isn't a violent threat, but it's a threat. There's nothing else here except the knickers."

"I agree."

"Here," Ron said, holding out the magazine. "I don't want to take credit for what you found."

Harry looked at him askance. Then he smiled.

"We found both things together." With a shrug, he said, "Either way, we found more than the arresting Aurors."

Ron smirked in return, and together they apparated back to the Ministry.

* * *

Hermione simultaneously loved and hated her luck. Harry and Ron had done exactly what she had anticipated planting in their heads; they had seen the article in the Critiquill and begun proceedings to locate and question Aloysius Pound. That was fantastic and great. The other thing they had found was not.

Lucius had bought her the Agent Provocateur lingerie for her birthday, mainly because it amused him that they had a collection called 'Witches'. It was a full, matching set with several different options so that it could actually make about ten different outfits. It was beautiful lingerie and she felt like a goddess in it, no matter the combination. She had nearly had a small stroke when she found out via curious internet surfing at Paolo and Elisabetta's just how much the undergarments cost.

They had argued over it. She saw no practicality in spending so much money on things that probably cost a fraction of a fraction of the sale price to make. It ended with Lucius telling her that he could buy her whatever he wanted, damn it, it was his money and if he wanted to spend it on obscenely expensive lingerie, he would. He had been so stubborn about it. She had relented, but instructed him to buy more reasonable gifts next time.

She hadn't even noticed the missing knickers. Since the set had so many items, it had never occurred to her that something might have been misplaced. She couldn't even isolate a time when she thought she might have lost them. There were too many good memories in that bed _and_ that lingerie.

Fuck.

"What do they do when they find evidence like that?" she asked Harry, keeping her voice level. She affected the tone of one who was simply curious.

"Try to find DNA, and if they do, identification spells tell you who wore the knickers and sometimes who, er, might have removed them."

Hermione wanted to ask more, but it really was not a suitable conversation for lunch. Logically, they would be looking for any kind of secretion, skin, or hair. She clamped down on her panic. She had cast those cleansing charms over the entire villa, but who knew if they had reached whatever dark corner the knickers were hiding in?

As the meal went on, she felt ever closer to tears. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. Hermione made an excuse about having to study (because they certainly wouldn't think there was anything odd about that), laid down her share of the bill, and left.

Smythe had made himself right at home in her flat. Hermione didn't mind, since he was essentially ignoring his own life for the sake of Lucius's. In fact, she was downright glad that he was there when she returned, because if he wasn't she would have been all alone in her panic.

He looked up from the computer when she closed the door. Whatever cheerful greeting he intended to give died on his lips.

"What is it?" he asked immediately.

Hermione swallowed and tried to hold back her tears of frustration. "We have a major, major problem."

* * *

She was sobbing against Smythe's chest when her already bad day got even worse. The door to her flat swung open and admitted a certain redhead. Hermione didn't notice at first because all she saw was the dark blue of Tiresias' sweater. Only the healer's sudden tension and quick intake of breath gave it away.

Blearily, she looked up. Her stomach dropped about a thousand feet. If not for the anti-nausea potion Tiresias had given her earlier, she probably would have vomited on the spot.

Ron stood in the doorway, frozen in awkward shock.

"I…uh…you left your scarf…and I didn't think you were staying here…and the wards…"

Of course. She had never changed the wards. He would know how to get in.

Groping for some semblance of composure, Hermione pulled away from Smythe. She wobbled up to Ron and held out a shaking hand for the scarf. Slowly, he placed the woolen bundle in her palm.

For one desperately hopeful moment, she thought Ron was going to leave without a word. He started to turn away. But alas, it was not meant to be.

"So," he bit off as he turned back, "this is my replacement?"

"Ron-" she started.

"I think you've misconstrued this," Tiresias spoke up. "Hermione and I are friends. She was upset. That's all there is to it."

"Right," Ron replied, clearly not believing it. "Really, Hermione, an American?"

Smythe's eyes narrowed. "I'm Canadian."

"Even better."

The healer crossed his arms over his chest. Until now, the hostility had been one-sided, but Ron had effectively pushed Smythe's button. Hermione looked back and forth between the two men. She didn't know what kind of temper Tiresias had, but she was well aware of Ron's. The best course of action was to get one or both of them out.

"Ron, thank you for returning my scarf. I appreciate it. What I would appreciate now is you leaving," Hermione spoke up.

Ron opened his mouth and Hermione braced herself. However, Smythe spoke right over him.

"When a lady tells you to leave, you _leave_," he said icily.

"Are you going to make me, Captain Canada?"

"If it comes to that, Ensign England," Smythe retorted.

"Try it and I'll have you arrested for assaulting an Auror," Ron threatened boldly.

"RON! Stop trying to pick a fight!" she finally exploded. "You are not an Auror! You're an Auror trainee, and frankly, if he did assault you, you would deserve it! I asked you nicely to get out. If you are not out that door in ten seconds, my friend will be the least of your worries."

"Oh, come on Hermione, we both know you won't hex me," he said dismissively.

She plucked her wand from her pocket. "You think so?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Do you remember what it's like to vomit slugs? Fancy another go?" she shot back nastily. "Five….four…three…two…"

Thankfully, just before she got to one, Ron turned on his heel and left. Hermione wanted to collapse into a pile of self-pity. Unfazed, Tiresias appeared beside her and helped her to the couch where she could actually collapse.

She just sat there for a moment, shocked at the turn everything had taken. This was karma, she supposed. This was what she got for lying to Harry…for lying to everyone.

The healer shook his head.

"No wonder you don't want to tell them. He doesn't even know me…"

Hermione sighed heavily. "At least the worst he has on you is that you're Canadian."

* * *

Something about being in the Manor exhausted him. He had not done too much during the day, save studiously avoid all forms of media and briefly inspect the home that had become so foreign to him. He had made some plans for redecoration and magical purification, as well; half of the Manor's oppressive feel came from the sheer overwhelming amount of dark magic that had seeped into it over many generations. Spells to remove such things were complex and very draining, but he knew that he could do them and he planned to once his house arrest was lifted.

He had dozed off reading a book about that very thing. In his dream-state he didn't think anything of the sudden feeling of a body next to his. He assumed it was Hermione cuddling up to him as she sometimes did in the middle of the night. A pair of lips ghosted over his; automatically, he lifted his chin into the kiss. But her mouth did not taste the way he remembered…

That was when Lucius recalled where he was and why. His eyes snapped open. His first instinct was to fight, to get away as quickly as possible. He was able to pull back from the interloper's kiss, but a soft, pale leg wrapped around him and a pair of hands fisted in the front of his pyjamas held him right where he was.

"It's me, Lucius. It's me."

His pounding heart slowed at the familiar voice, but only slightly.

"Narcissa…what are you…?"

"I've been horrible. I want to make it up to you…"

He felt her delicate hand slide against his chest, parting the robe he had fallen asleep in. After everything, he still felt a slight jolt at her touch. It was a primal recognition of the mother of his child. He supposed he would never _not_ feel it. Lucius swallowed.

"This is not the way," he said gently, taking hold of her wrist.

"I always made you feel good, didn't I?"

"Of course. Of course you did." He sensed that any other answer would result in a breakdown or his untimely castration. Though, in fairness to her, their lovemaking had never been bad. There had just been an element of detachment most of the time, because they were not truly in love.

She said no more, but he could feel the sleek form of her body pressed against him. She wasn't wearing much. Lucius lay there in silence for a long moment, unsure what to say or do. This wasn't all that strange; sex had always been a way to mend fences between them and apparently Narcissa saw no reason why that couldn't continue just because they were no longer married. He did want to patch things up with her, but not in the way she had in mind. The kindest way to refuse would be to change the subject.

"Do you know what?"

"What?" she asked, glancing up at him.

"I think you should go to the mind healer with our son."

He felt the bed shift as she lifted herself up on one elbow. "You…you can't seriously endorse that madness," she whispered.

"Why not?"

"If anyone were to find out…"

"What does it matter? We lived by those kinds of worries before and look where it got us."

Slowly, she disentangled herself from his body and sat up. He was glad that his diversion had worked. Lucius contemplated her as she drew her knees up to her chest. He didn't entirely understand her resistance to the mind healer; during the war, _she_ had been the one to go the distance for their son. She had dropped all the pretenses and foregone all decorum to save him when Lucius couldn't. Why should she suddenly care about image now?

"Have you gone?" she questioned.

"Yes. For the last five weeks."

"You wouldn't care if people knew?"

"If anyone wants to mock us for seeking therapy after a traumatic war, let them. It will only show their ignorance."

Narcissa sighed. "I know that." She wiggled her perfectly painted toenails. "It's just…well, you told me a secret yesterday, so I'll tell you one now. When Andromeda was ten, my parents hired a mind healer to find out what was wrong with her." She shook her head. "Of course there was nothing wrong with her. She just wasn't sadistic like Bellatrix or a miniature pureblood princess like me."

Lucius nodded. He knew Narcissa's feelings toward her remaining sister had improved markedly, though she wasn't quite at the point where she felt comfortable speaking to her. What could one say after so many years and so much loss?

"I was seven at the time. Bellatrix told me to spy on her when the healer was there – he came to the house. I was to listen to what she said, report back to Bellatrix, and we would make fun of her for it later on. So, the next time the mind healer came, I snuck down and opened the door a crack."

He sincerely hoped that the story was not going where he thought it was. But why else would Narcissa mistrust mind healers so thoroughly?

"That son of a bitch had his hand up her skirt. He was trying to touch her. I didn't understand it, but I knew that he wasn't supposed to be doing that. I…I got down on the floor and started to scream and cry like I had fallen and hurt myself. My father came running and asked the healer to have a look at me to make sure I was all right. During the distraction Andromeda went straight to our mother and told her what had happened. I honestly don't know if that healer made it out of the house alive."

"Serves him right if he didn't," Lucius murmured darkly. He was glad she had never told him this; he might not have been able to resist the urge to blot out the parasitic mind healer if the Blacks had not beaten him to the punch.

With a shaky sigh, Narcissa nodded. "My parents obliviated Andromeda. Of course, they couldn't obliviate me because they didn't know I had seen it. They just thought my clumsiness had a fortunate outcome, for once."

"I can't imagine you ever being clumsy."

"Believe me, I was."

He reached out to squeeze his ex-wife's hand. "You were very brave, Narcissa. You saved your sister from a terrible thing."

She offered him a tiny smile. "Thank you." He felt the pressure of her clutching his hand in return. "That is why I'm so averse to mind healers. All I can think about is that cretin."

"Draco's healer is a good man. I've investigated him."

Narcissa sighed. "I know that you wouldn't let him go to some crackpot." She shook her head. "Draco must hate me for reacting the way I did, especially since you have gone with him. It was just such an unexpected request."

"If he doesn't hate me then he most certainly doesn't hate you for something so small. When you explain to him why you reacted that way, he'll understand."

"You think I should tell him?"

"Yes."

She tiltled her blonde head to stare perceptively at him. "What are _you_ telling him, Lucius?"

He gently tugged his hand from hers and shifted up into a sitting position. After adjusting his robe, he admitted, "Whatever he asks."

Narcissa digested that during a very long moment of silence.

"What has he asked?"

"A few things," Lucius shrugged, not caring to elaborate much. "On Saturday he asked me if I ever cheated on you. I told him no and he didn't believe me any more than you did." His lips twitched. "He hit me."

"What?!" Narcissa gasped, horrified, her hand rising up to cover her mouth.

"It's all right. Lord knows he deserved at least one good shot at me."

She was looking at him strangely. He had to glance away, uncomfortable with her knowing scrutiny. Lucius picked at some nonexistent lint on the bedspread. He did not feel how different he had become until that moment. Had Hermione made him so mellow?

Narcissa's cool hand against his cheek brought him out of his rumination. He looked up into her clear blue eyes and felt a strong, slashing pang in his chest. He regretted that he hadn't been able to be a better husband, even if she was not his perfect match. He regretted all that his poor decisions had put her through. He regretted that he seldom recognized her intelligence, poise, and strength. Narcissa had her flaws _and_ her moments, but he easily had twice as many in the course of their marriage.

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

"I know." She slid closer. "I'm sorry, too. I should have listened to you. You shouldn't have had to suffer alone."

"I think it was good that I did," Lucius replied thoughtfully.

"No…it must have been terrible. It must be like having a knife plunged into your back when you're only trying to protect someone and they hate you for it."

He glanced up in surprise. "Did you hate me?"

Narcissa expelled an agitated sigh. "I _wanted_ to, but I couldn't, which made me resent you even more."

"We were a wonderfully functional couple, weren't we?" Lucius chuckled.

"In some ways." Narcissa's hand slid along his thigh and a demure, Mona Lisa-like smile touched her lips. "We're so good when we actually talk."

"You'd think that would be common sense."

"Not to Slytherins."

It was true. Any Slytherin would rather keep a secret than divulge it, even to those closest to him. Sometimes logic and necessity would drive them out as it had with Lucius's arrest and his "curse". However, that was a prime example of yet another facet of the Slytherin personality: the knowledge and careful execution of when to reveal a secret in order to gain from it. He could have gone through this process without telling them, but revealing the secret had gotten him a safe and vastly more comfortable place of detention until the whole debacle was over.

"So what now?" he asked. It didn't escape his notice that Narcissa's hand was still resting on his thigh.

She leaned into him, a soft and amorous expression on her face. "Let's make love one last time."

He contemplated her. He didn't find the idea repulsive; there were still things about her that had the power to arouse him. However, even the slightest thought about Hermione made him feel like he couldn't breathe. He simply couldn't betray her like that…not after she had told him, albeit in a moment of extreme stress, that she loved him.

He put his hand over Narcissa's.

"I can't."

Narcissa gave him a curious look. "I thought you said it was all right as long as you were having your treatments."

"You really don't care that I'm cursed?"

She shook her head.

He was not the only one who had changed. He could see that his advice to Draco about his mother was erroneous, though Narcissa had acted within its parameters for a reason neither of them could have known. Lucius sincerely hoped that she was honest with their son and would someday accompany him to the mind healer. He didn't want their relationship to atrophy because of a misunderstanding. Narcissa was vain and sometimes arrogant (neither of which he could claim immunity to), but she would do anything for her family.

Lucius was unprepared for the wall of emotion that hit him. He had to struggle for control as it burst in his chest. It felt so _good_ to finally have the air clear. It had taken nearly two years for him and Narcissa to forgive one another – she for his stupidity in ever becoming involved with the Death Eaters and endangering his family, and he for the actions of her sister and her unwitting cruelty after the war. Finally…finally there was catharsis.

While he was basking in the exquisite, painful emptying of every emotion he had unknowingly bottled up, Narcissa curled against his side. They stayed that way for a long time. So long, in fact, that his eyelids began to droop in the fatigue of exorcised demons.

"There's someone else, isn't there?" Narcissa asked quietly.

"Yes."

"Do you love her?"

He didn't even have to think about his answer, and he was too tired to dance around the truth. "Yes."

She sighed. "I can tell."

"Haven't you had a thousand young virile boyfriends?" he asked with a little smirk.

"I wish."

"Well, what's the hold up?"

She shrugged. "There isn't anybody. Everyone's either married or related to me."

"You aren't still searching the same…" he chose his words carefully, "circles, are you?"

Narcissa pulled back and gave him a confused look. "Aren't you?"

Slowly, he shook his head. "It's a new world, Narcissa."

She leaned back down to rest against his shoulder.

"I suppose it is."

They lay there like that for a long while, in an entirely platonic embrace. At some point Lucius nodded off. When he woke to the weak light of yet another cloudy morning, his ex-wife was gone.

* * *

Kingsley looked up at the knock on his door. It was Dawlish and he was glad to see his old friend; he knew he could trust him, unlike Head Auror Pell. Pell had been removed from the Netherwood case. Time would tell if he would be removed from anything else.

"Kingsley," the other man nodded.

"Bogart," he returned.

Dawlish made a face; he hated being called by his first name. It had taken a long time and a lot of respect to shake his training camp nickname of 'Bogey'. Kingsley was fairly certain that even the man's own wife referred to him as Dawlish, or D for short.

"I have a title, you know," Kingsley joked.

"Oh, yes, _Minister_." Dawlish rolled his eyes.

"That's better, Dawlish."

"Don't let it go to your head, mate."

Shacklebolt smiled slightly. They had been roommates during Auror training so many years ago and had been very close friends ever since. He saw his friends less and less since taking the post of Minister, and his love life continued to be nonexistent…but that was beside the point.

"Do you have anything good for me?"

"I don't know that I would call it good, but it is definitely interesting." He reached into the pocket of his robes and withdrew a small vial. Inside was the familiar liquid silver of a memory. "You can view it, of course, but I'll make it easy. This is a memory of security footage from the bank where Netherwood's account was set up. It shows an unidentified man in Auror robes presenting a warrant to the branch manager. It was a warrant to compel the bank to reveal the account holder who was receiving royalties for Faim."

"Did we ever issue any such warrant?"

"No."

Kingsley sighed. "Do we know who this man is? Is he one of ours?"

"I don't recognize him, though I did submit the image to archives and they are currently searching."

"So am I to understand that in all probability, someone _impersonating_ a British Auror traced Faim's royalties to this bank, fabricated a warrant, and forced the bank to reveal Netherwood's identity?"

"That's how it's starting to look."

"Did the branch manager still have the warrant?"

"Yes. Fortunately he's a meticulous man." Dawlish dug the paper out of his other pocket. "It's a good fake."

Kingsley took it from his old friend and examined it. It was indeed an excellent fake; the only thing that idenfied it as a forgery was the Wizengamot's raised seal. That was impossible to duplicate thanks to some extreme copyrighting and taboo spellwork, but that didn't stop people from making some very convincing approximations. This one was only off by one letter; it was spelled 'Wizengamut'. The bank manager would have needed a magnifying spell to have any chance of noticing it. Kingsley had seen it so many times that the lettering switch was glaringly obvious.

"For suspicion of accessory to murder," Kingsley read out loud. "No wonder the manager ponied up."

Dawlish nodded. "Someone planned this. Honestly, Kings, I think this clears Malfoy."

"I think so, too. His letter proves that he already knew Netherwood and was aware of his connection to Faim. There would be no reason for him to go to this length to find Netherwood."

Dawlish sighed. "He's one that I hate to let go."

"He hasn't been a problem since the end of the war."

"I guess not." The Auror stood and returned the memory and the false warrant to his pocket. "Two months in solitary and a lethal curse must do something to change a man's ways."

"I imagine those things would change any man." Kingsley looked down at the baubles on his desk. Dawlish had never been assigned to Azkaban; he hated the place, Dementors or no Dementors. He was a tough Auror, but he only had the heart to catch the criminals. He left it to others to punish or rehabilitate them.

"I guess this Aloysius Pound character is now our primary suspect," Dawlish said, breaking the somber silence.

"It seems that way. Get him in here for questioning."

"Will do, old friend."

After Dawlish left, Kingsley sat there deep in thought. Malfoy was innocent. That was certain now. However, there were other things that still remained ambiguous and they ate at the Minister of Magic.

Did no one besides him think that Malfoy could be the author of Faim, in addition to Netherwood's clever sidekick? It was true that Lucius had never before shown a flair for the literary. Kingsley had researched. There was nothing, not so much as an editorial. For such an opinionated man, he had evidently never felt the need to put those opinions down on paper.

But if Kingsley knew anything, it was that Lucius was an intelligent man. He didn't know how much of what Malfoy had related in the interrogation room was the absolute truth; there always seemed to be gears turning behind the blond wizard's eyes. He was capable of something as clever as an anonymous and chillingly controversial bestseller.

It went without saying that he was well-read. That didn't always equate to talent with a quill, though. He wished they had found some kind of diary at Malfoy's villa so he could compare writing styles. Some time ago he might have commissioned a search of Malfoy Manor for any kind of non-business documents, but currently he was loathe to do that. It was a vestige of the guilt that he still held.

Still, Kingsley couldn't lay his thoughts to rest. He couldn't order the Aurors to hold Malfoy in light of the evidence Dawlish had procured. However, evidence took time to process…

He chewed his lip. Yes. He would think on it for one more day, and if he couldn't connect Malfoy to the book by then, he'd tell Dawlish to release him.

* * *

Draco's hands were shaking. This book was making him sick, but he couldn't stop reading it. He had stayed up well into the night, reading even when his eyes began to burn with exhaustion.

He was almost finished, but around four in the morning, his body had demanded that he sleep. He had lost consciousness on his stomach with his cheek resting against the crisp pages. It was lucky that he didn't have typefaced words imprinted in his skin today – though he drooled the tiniest bit and the pages now had a slight ripple.

After a shower and some breakfast, he had been enticed straight back into bed to finish the damnable book. He was there now, riveted, as he neared the end.

_He was wary of the world, wary of any happiness that drifted his way, for he knew that such things were always temporary. They were a tease, like the touch of a woman who would never truly give herself to you. People thought he was stoic. In reality, he was so jaded that he believed in the authenticity of nothing. His own feelings were to be viewed with suspicion. His own life felt like a house of cards, poised to fall at the slightest wind._

Draco shook his head in wonder. He _knew_ that feeling. He knew it, but could never have put words to it like that.

_He needed something. He needed some anchor, but he found none. Time passed in interminable stretches, full of mundanity and swings of excruciating rage and depression. He was a phoenix that could not burn._

This author was a genius. Draco felt near tears. He knew all these feelings. They were describing his life during and immediately after the war, when all he could do was live day to day, resisting the urge to scream, to take his own life, to do something stupid so someone else would take it for him…

He swallowed and closed the book, needing a moment to compose himself. He felt no shame in crying. Draco had been an absolute blubbering mess the first few sessions with Healer Newbery. It was the first time he had ever been confronted with a person who wouldn't judge him and the result was a near-tsunami of emotion.

He had better control over himself now. Time was a powerful factor in his mental health. The further he got from all the things he had seen and endured, the easier it was to deal with the fact that it had happened.

Reading this book was stirring things up. He wondered how much time and distance it had taken for this author to put every ounce of his shame, rage, and self-loathing on paper. Draco didn't think any of it was fictional. One simply couldn't write about these things so incisively if one hadn't experienced them.

Draco exhaled. Could his father have written this? The truth was that he had no idea. His father was still very much a mystery to him. All the shields and screens were slowly falling away in therapy, but weren't yet at a point where Draco could definitively say if his sire was capable of writing such a thing or not.

He didn't want it to be his father. He didn't want him to have suffered what this narrator had. He didn't want a progenitor who was a murderer, even a justified one. He just didn't want to be reading his father's savagely depressing autobiography right now.

But if it was him…if it one day came to light that Lucius Malfoy had indeed written Faim…Draco would still love the old bastard anyway.


	25. Chapter 25

Harry could tell that his best mate was fuming over something. For once, he had no idea what it was. Ron had actually been very well behaved at the lunch date with Hermione. He hadn't said much, but he had been civil and even volunteered to take her scarf back to her flat after she accidentally left it behind. Perhaps they'd had words? No, that couldn't be it – Hermione was staying in Italy.

After the sixth door slam, Harry sighed and prepared himself for the tirade that would inevitably come when he opened his mouth.

"What's the matter, Ron?"

"Nothing," the redhead said tightly.

"Don't be ridiculous. I think we've been friends long enough that I can tell when you're angry about something."

Ron set his toothpaste down rather forcefully. "I am way beyond angry!"

"Talk to me, then."

"No," Ron said, jabbing his toothbrush in Harry's direction. "Every time I talk about Hermione you get mad and tell me to shut up."

"Just tell me what happened," Harry sighed, exasperated.

"Fine. I'll tell you what happened. I went to her flat to drop off the scarf and she was _there_ with some…some…man…some stupid Canadian!"

Harry frowned at that. If she was staying in Italy, why would she have been at her flat in London? And her boyfriend was Canadian? He supposed it was possible; just because she was living with him in Italy didn't necessarily mean he was Italian. She hadn't sold or rented out her flat, either, so there was no real reason that she couldn't be there…

"So you're mad because she's seeing someone else?"

"Yes!" Ron exploded. He began to pace. "No! I don't know!"

"Well, did he seem like a decent person?"

"She was crying when I walked in. He obviously did something to hurt her and that's why I'm angry!"

"You don't know that," Harry reasoned, though his protective instincts kicked in at the thought of Hermione crying, as well. "They might have just had a fight or something. I hate to say it, mate, but she might also have been crying from seeing you."

"I didn't do anything!" Ron bellowed.

"I know you didn't! I wasn't saying you did. Just…well, she loved you, and even though she initiated the breakup it still hurt her."

"Oh, please. She was probably jumping for joy after getting rid of me," Ron moped cynically.

"She wasn't. I went to see her and she was bawling. She was very upset."

Ron stopped and stared at Harry. "You went to see her?"

"Yes. You're both my best friends. I couldn't just abandon her because you were angry." He expected to be shouted at for his duplicity, but Ron just frowned.

"She was really crying?"

"Yes. A lot." Harry crossed the room and squeezed Ron's shoulder. The redhead looked confused and forlorn. "She wanted it to work, mate, but sometimes it just isn't meant to."

Ron didn't say anything for a long while. Then he walked away from Harry, but he didn't go far. He stood by the window, his arms crossed.

"I just hope that stupid man isn't hurting her."

Harry chewed his lip. Hermione had been so happy the last time he saw her. He felt protective of her, too, but Hermione was not the type of witch who would let a man push her around. There was probably some explanation.

"What exactly did you see?"

"He was hugging her and she was crying against his chest."

"Were there any marks on her?"

"No," Ron said quietly.

"Did he do anything that would make you think he'd hurt her?"

"He was…standoffish, but I wasn't really on my best behavior," the redhead admitted. "Hermione was the one who threatened to hex me, not him."

Harry was about to smile, thinking that that was the Hermione he knew and loved, when something clicked in his mind. "She said she would hex you? In front of him?"

"Yeah, wand out and everything. Why?"

"She told me that he was a muggle that didn't know she was a witch. Why would she do that in front of him?"

"When did she tell you that?"

Harry sighed. "I had dinner with her earlier in the week. She looked so radiant that I knew she was…" he chose his words carefully, "very happy."

"In love. You were going to say in love!" Ron accused.

"I was not!"

Ron scowled at him, knowing that it was a lie, but he didn't press the issue. "So she told you that he was a Muggle who didn't know she was a witch, but was threatening to hex me and talking about Aurors in front of him?"

"That's why I brought it up. It doesn't make sense," Harry responded with a shake of his head.

"Well, maybe she told him and he didn't like it and broke up with her. Maybe that's why she was crying." Ron's face lit up and he raised his pointer finger. "He _did_ say that they were just friends!"

Harry tried not to roll his eyes at how well Ron must have listened to that. Impulsive though his friend might be, what he was saying actually made sense. Perhaps Hermione had finally taken the plunge and revealed to her Muggle boyfriend that she was a witch. Some Muggles responded positively and some didn't. Maybe he was one that didn't, and Ron had walked in on a painful breakup.

He hoped it wasn't the case. Poor Hermione deserved a great man in her life. But if this man had been so stupid as to dump Hermione, that called for some best friend comforting duty. He considered Ron and wondered if he was ready for it. It was obvious that in this case much of his ire had been out of concern for the woman he still loved…but when her heart had just been broken twice in rapid succession, Ron's presence might not be the most soothing.

"I'll go to her flat and check on her later on," Harry said. "I think it's best if--"

Ron just waved his hand. "I know, mate. I know."

* * *

"So what are we going to do about these knickers?" Smythe said, frowning over his morning coffee.

"I don't know," Hermione sighed. She was missing her second straight day of classes. She had owled and told them that she was sick; another student was taking notes for her. "I cast a lot of thorough cleansing charms. It's possible that there's no evidence of me on them."

"Just possible?"

"They were jammed behind the bed. I don't know if the spell was able to reach them."

"So basically there's a fifty-fifty chance of you being outed once they analyze the knickers."

Hermione turned briefly from the eggs she was cooking. "I hope the odds are that good."

Tiresias frowned. "Well, what are you going to do if they figure it out?" In his opinion, she had to start preparing for the inevitable.

She got out of having to respond when an owl tapped at the window. Hermione walked over to let it in. Instead of dropping its letter with her, it made a beeline for the healer. After his initial surprise, he quickly opened the letter.

_Healer Smythe,_

_It will please you to know that evidence has come to light that clears your patient, Mr. Lucius Malfoy, of any wrongdoing in the ongoing criminal investigation of the death of Mr. Patrick Netherwood. Similar letters have been sent to Mr. Malfoy as well as his lawyer. Mr. Malfoy will be officially cleared at 15:00 hours today and the Ministry of Magic respectfully requests that you be present for the removal of his house arrest. The wards and spellwork involved in such things are quite strong and in light of Mr. Malfoy's delicate condition we believe it is best that you are on hand in case anything goes wrong. This is a routine precaution that is offered to anyone being released from house arrest. Most decline to have a healer present but in this case we must insist. If you are unable to attend, please respond as soon as possible so we can find a suitable replacement._

_Thank you for your time and patience._

_B. Dawlish, Acting Head Auror_

_Ministry of Magic_

_London, England_

"What does it say?" Hermione asked nervously.

Tiresias broke into a wide grin. "Lucius is cleared. They found other evidence."

He was unprepared for the high-pitched shriek of joy that Hermione emitted at hearing the news. He was also unprepared for her crushing hug and the kiss on his cheek that almost gave him whiplash. Merlin, the girl was stronger than she looked!

And she was also insane, apparently, for once she had finished assaulting him, she began to dance around the small kitchen with the spatula in hand.

"Your eggs are going to burn," he cautioned grumpily, massaging his sore neck.

"Forget plain old eggs!" she exclaimed, turning off the burner. "You stay right there. I'm going to the store. We're going to have a proper breakfast with Mimosas!"

Tiresias couldn't find it in his heart to remind her that there still might be a complication with the knickers if they had been processed before the evidence that had cleared Lucius. She was so jubilant at the thought of her lover going free that she forgot all else. For now, he'd let her have her happiness and gladly celebrate right along with her.

* * *

In the Malfoy household, a similar reaction was taking place. Lucius read the letter out loud at the breakfast table.

"Dear Mr. Malfoy, It is with great pleasure that we inform you that you have been cleared of all charges in the case of the murder of Mr. Patrick Netherwood."

He never got any further because his ex-wife let out a little gasping squeak and his son nearly shouted, "It's about time!" A moment later he found himself sandwiched between them, Draco on his left and Narcissa on the right. They squeezed him in tandem.

His lips twitched and he wasn't sure if it was from the urge to smile, cry, or both. This was only the second time they had embraced like this. The first was when they knew the war was finally over, in the Great Hall of Hogwarts with the body of the Dark Lord lying neglected where Harry Potter felled him. He was glad it hadn't taken so much to provoke it this time. Lucius reached up to touch their intertwined arms and was nearly bludgeoned with emotion. He seemed to be experiencing that a lot these days.

They stayed that way until Draco's stomach growled loudly. Together, they laughed, and then separated to settle into one of the first happy family meals in years.

* * *

The afternoon came quickly and for the first time in his life, Lucius was looking forward to seeing an Auror. It hadn't been terrible to stay at the Manor but he very much missed the villa and the woman who lived in it with him. Nonetheless, this had been valuable healing time for his family that might not have happened if not for his house arrest.

It seemed as though there was a procession. First came Tiresias, about thirty minutes early. He handed Lucius a banana nut muffin and smiled. Lucius didn't need to ask who had sent it. He set it aside for the moment since he wasn't hungry.

Then his lawyer showed up. Absalon was as grim and crotchety as ever. He actually told Lucius to quit getting in trouble so that he could go ahead and die already. Tiresias looked somewhat horrified at the sentiment, but Lucius just laughed. Grier had been saying that for a very long time.

Narcissa wafted in a few minutes after Grier. She looked gorgeous in a sapphire robe, soft makeup, and a new hairstyle. Lucius suspected that she was hoping one of the Aurors (or Tiresias) was single.

Draco was the last to round out their group, straggling in from the gym. Narcissa scolded him for being in workout clothes and sweaty to boot. Draco just rolled his eyes and shrugged it off. Privately, Lucius admired how his son was putting on muscle; it was no wonder his slug in therapy the other day had caused such a bruise.

At 15:00 on the dot, the floo ignited. Three Aurors stepped through in succession. Then the green flames lit one last time, and an unexpected guest appeared. Narcissa nearly fainted.

"Minister Shacklebolt, we weren't expecting you," she said nervously. Doubtless she was thinking about the state of the Manor and of her underdressed son.

"My apologies, Ms. Black. I don't mean to intrude, but I'd like a moment alone with Mr. Malfoy."

Several people in the room glanced at each other and then at Lucius. Slowly, Lucius nodded. A few moments later everyone had shuffled out and they were alone. There were several things he might have said in the ensuing silence, but Lucius held his tongue. He just watched the tall man, waiting for whatever it was he needed privacy to say.

Kingsley observed him, perceiving the indifference that rolled off Malfoy in waves. This wasn't going to be easy. It had to be done, though. He had realized that morning that it was cruel and ridiculous of him to prolong Lucius's captivity just because of a hunch. He had done the man enough wrong and if Malfoy was off writing anonymous books to deal with it, then more power to him.

"I owe you an apology, Lucius."

Lucius just stared at him, unblinking, his eyes cold. The other wizard sighed and lowered himself into one of the spare chairs. He contemplated his interlocked fingers for a time.

"This is long overdue. I…don't want to upset you, but before he died, Mulciber confessed to me what he did to you."

That broke Lucius's composure. His eyes widened and his nostrils flared. "What did that son of a bitch tell you?" he said through his teeth.

"He gave me the memory. I heard everything. Saw everything. I know what it is he gave you. I didn't understand it at the time, but with the revelation of your 'curse', I did some research…"

"What is this?" Lucius snapped. "An apology or blackmail?"

"I'm not going to say anything." He reached into the pocket of his robe. "Just like I'm not going to say anything about the identity of the lady who wore these."

In his hand he held a clear plastic bag that contained an indistinguishable mass of black fabric. Lucius frowned at it. Shacklebolt shook it slightly, shifting the pooled fabric. His blood went cold when he realized what it was.

Knickers. Hermione's knickers. Damn it to hell. Hadn't he told her to take _everything_? They must have been in some crevice that she missed in her panic. Hermione was a thorough woman and he knew she had done a better job of erasing her presence than anyone else could do – but even she was not perfect. Bugger. This changed everything.

"You know who they belong to?" he asked, his mouth dry. If that was what Shacklebolt had truly come to discuss, Lucius was endlessly thankful for the privacy.

"No. We did find physical evidence, but I ordered forensics to destroy it. Who you liase with is your business. I thought she might appreciate this back; I've heard that the brand is rather expensive."

Lucius took the bag wordlessly and tucked it into the pocket of his robe, conscious that he and Hermione had just dodged a very large bullet. He carefully controlled his face; if he showed too much relief, Shacklebolt would suspect something. It was bad enough that he already suspected him of authoring Faim. Lucius gathered his courage for his next statement. He didn't want to appear ungrateful because Shacklebolt had just done him a tremendous favor, but he couldn't allow the man to think that this somehow made up for his greater sin.

"While I appreciate your discretion, Minister, I resent the fact that it comes out of pity and guilt."

"Guilt, yes, but I don't pity you," Shacklebolt replied calmly.

He shook his head at the bald statement, his anger steadily building. Lucius knew that he had landed himself in Azkaban; no one had forced him to be in the Ministry that night. He had gone of his own free will so he could understand the lack of pity. He just couldn't believe Shacklebolt had known his mistake all along and never said or done anything. How could the man look him in the eye?

"You refused to listen to me, you put me in hell, and then when you found out you were wrong, you kept it to yourself to avoid the consequences. And now, almost four years later, you want to play nice?" Lucius couldn't control a sneer. "You think I care if you go and tell the world about my illness? Go right ahead, but you mustn't leave out how you punished me for being attacked by a madman and how I nearly died because your sadistic penalty prevented me from getting the care I needed. When will that story run, hm?"

Kingsley couldn't hide a grimace at the thought of the whole truth coming out. His time as Minister had been relatively scandal-free, probably due to his complete lack of an interesting life, but he had no desire to begin serving up material for the Daily Prophet now. He wasn't entirely sure how he had miscalculated with Lucius. He had thought that the Slytherin would understand the benefit of keeping quiet when one made a mistake no one else knew about, not to mention the bartering of favors to try to atone for it.

How politics had changed him…before taking office he would never have been foolish enough to think that logic and favors could make up for the kind of pain Lucius had been through. He'd never had to choose between his public image and his conscience. Or perhaps he had been doing that all along when it came to Malfoy; he had consistently judged his job and his reputation to be more important than what was right or wrong in his behavior back then. There was so much ambiguity in the entire situation.

He felt no pity for a Death Eater, a wizard he knew had committed numerous crimes and would never be punished for the vast majority of them. But the man who had been dragged to solitary in Azkaban, bleeding, half-crippled, had not appealed to him as a Death Eater. Lucius had appealed to him as a man – a person in need of his protection. His job as an Auror was to protect people, even the immoral ones, and he had failed colossally. In fact, he had done just what Lucius was guilty of: he had judged someone and used what power he had to punish them for a perceived slight that was, in reality, entirely unbased.

"I'm trying to do the right thing now. Isn't it better late than never?" he said, already recognizing the futility of it.

"No," Lucius retorted. "I do not want or need your apology. At this point it only benefits _you. _ I have come to terms with what happened. It is your own fault that you can't." The blond wizard took a deep breath. "I am grateful for your assistance in this debacle of a case, but from now on…" he raised a hand and jabbed his pointer finger at the dark-skinned wizard, "you stay away from me. You stay away from my family. And the next time anything remotely criminal happens, disrupt someone else's life!"

Kingsley could only blink at him, stunned by the tirade that had come out of the normally composed Malfoy patriarch. Lucius wasn't done. He shot to his feet and stalked toward the door. Pulling it open, he called, "Auror Dawlish! I am ready for the cuff to be removed!"

* * *

Draco was leaning against the mantel, arms crossed, watching as they removed the cuff that had confined his father to the Manor and restricted his magic. Watching was one of his favorite things because he could see and glean so much from people when they didn't realize they were being observed. Like the healer, Tiresias Smythe – he was supposed to be monitoring his father and he had cast the necessary spells, but he wasn't paying any attention to them. His eyes were traveling back and forth between the Minister of Magic and Lucius.

Smythe didn't like Shacklebolt. The more Draco watched, the more he realized that his own father detested the man, too. Lucius was good at hiding things and others might have missed the way he acted as though Shacklebolt wasn't even there, but because Smythe saw it, Draco saw it. Ignoring someone was a prime form of scorn, worse even than a verbal expression, because it implied that the person was not even worthy of that. That was something he had only just grasped.

He wondered what had transpired in the ten minutes that had elapsed after Shacklebolt expressed the desire to speak to Lucius alone. Draco chewed his lip. He would probably never know.

* * *

He should have enjoyed the feeling of his freedom being restored. However, Lucius found that he was so angry that there was no joy in it. All he wanted was for all these people to get out of his goddamn house…and to destroy something.

* * *

Hermione was watching in amusement as Jo-Jo prepared a virtual feast in her tiny little kitchen. Just as the elf's expression of anxiety had resulted in excessive cleaning, her jubilance resulted in excessive cooking and baking. Her cupboards were going to be bare by day's end.

Jo-Jo had just handed her a mini croquette when a pain flared above her right breast. Hermione gasped and dropped the hors d'oeuvre.

"Oh!" Jo-Jo squeaked. "Is it too hot, Miss Hermione? Jo-Jo is very sorry!"

"No," she managed, "it's fine. I…" she touched the raised markings of the runes through her shirt, "I'll be right back."

She left a mystified Jo-Jo in the living room. Once in the bathroom, she tugged her shirt down. The runes Lucius had placed upon her were an angry red, lifted like welts from her skin. There was something wrong. Something was causing him great emotional pain.

He was being freed, cleared of all charges. What would upset him?

A cold chill danced up her spine. The knickers. Their relationship had been revealed. That was the only explanation…

Hermione turned and hastily sat down, her back against the vanity. She had no idea what this meant. Would they ever be together again? Would there be reporters breaking down her door? Would her friends ever forgive her?

She pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her forehead against them. She had to breathe. Jumping to conclusions wouldn't help anything. She needed to be patient and not assume.

If they had been revealed, surely Tiresias would come back and warn her. Yes. She would wait for him, or for the enraged appearance Harry was sure to make - whichever came first.

* * *

Draco hadn't moved. Though most everyone else had now gone from the room, his mother included, Draco felt some unknown intuition that nagged him to stay. Smythe was still here, too, warily watching Lucius.

His father was leaning against the window frame, his back to the room. His shoulders were tight with tension. That posture wasn't the stance of a free man.

A quiet beep sounded. It was Smythe's wand; he had never discontinued the monitoring charms. Draco wasn't sure what the beep meant, but it made the healer frown.

Smythe glanced at him. He looked as though he was deciding whether or not to say something. Draco stared back, clear-eyed. His refusal to leave was plain in his expression. He knew the healer was a good man and very likely a close friend to his father, but there was nothing wrong with having two people to ventilate to instead of just one.

At last, Smythe spoke.

"Lucius, your temperature is up," he said evenly. "I don't want a repeat of the sunflower field incident."

"I am not that angry."

"I'm not going to risk it. I want to give you a sedative."

Draco listened to the exchange closely. It was maddening not to know what they were talking about.

"A sedative won't miraculously erase this," his father growled.

"No, but it will give you time to calm down and process it."

There was a brief silence. Then his father took a shaky breath. "No, Tiresias. I will deal with it." He turned. "Draco, may I have a moment with Healer Smythe?"

With a frown and a sigh, Draco removed himself from the room.

* * *

Once they were alone, Tiresias asked the burning question. "What did he say to you?"

"The Minister?"

Smythe nodded.

"It isn't what he said. It's what he did…and didn't do," he replied cryptically.

"Is it something we should be reporting?" Smythe pressed.

"It might cause a satisfying scandal, but…" Lucius shook his head, "I think his guilt is the best punishment. Besides, he ordered the evidence from Hermione's knickers destroyed, so in spite of his past actions, he has done Hermione and me a very big favor."

Tiresias breathed an audible sigh of relief. "Well. That is good news."

"Indeed it is."

The healer seemed satisfied by the realization that at least one of their secrets was safe. He put his wand in his pocket and surveyed Lucius one more time. "You're certain you'll be all right?"

"I'll be fine."

"Okay. I'll go give Hermione the news."

Lucius watched him as he moved toward the floo. "Tell her I'm staying here tonight. Tomorrow I'll be back in Italy."

"I will." He turned and reached for some floo powder.

"Oh, and tell her that I love her."

Tiresias turned back, a slightly amused smile pulling at his lips. "I'm getting tired of being your intermediary, you know."

"I know," Lucius said apologetically. "This is the last time."

"It's fine. I don't mind at all." He threw the floo powder into the fireplace and called, "Hermione Granger's flat!" He was about to step through when Lucius spoke again.

"Tiresias?"

He turned back. "Hm?"

"Do you think you could send a Dreamless Sleep potion for later?"

He smiled at Lucius. "Of course."

* * *

Tiresias found Hermione sitting stiffly on the couch. Jo-Jo was next to her, desperately trying to ply the morose witch with a plate of confections that made his mouth water. The cuff's removal had taken longer than expected and it was dinner time.

"Hermione?"

She snapped to attention. "Do they know?" she asked anxiously.

"No. The Minister ordered the evidence destroyed. Apparently he owed Lucius some kind of favor…do you know why?"

Hermione shook her head. It was news to her that Kingsley Shacklebolt owed Lucius anything. She frowned. "So…we're safe?"

"One hundred percent." He reached down to take a cookie from Jo-Jo. The elf looked like she could have wept with joy. "He says he loves you and he'll be back in Italy tomorrow."

She slouched back against the couch, nearly boneless with relief. It felt too easy. She had been prepared for the worst and when she had to brace herself, she usually expected that to be what transpired. A situation where everything turned out all right was somewhat rare in her experience.

"Jo-Jo, this is delicious," Smythe said around a mouthful of cookie. "Can I take some of these back to Vancouver?"

"Of course, Master Smythe!"

"You can take half of _everything_ she made," Hermione said, a smile slowly emerging on her face. "There's enough for ten people!"

"Good, because right now I could eat enough for ten." The healer smiled with food still in his mouth, quite on purpose. "Show me to the feast!"

* * *

Lucius sat in the study for a quarter of an hour, thinking hard. On the surface, this was all over. In reality the murder of his publisher and friend was still unsolved. Not only that, but Lucius had been linked to him. A big red target had been drawn around him. If whoever had murdered Patrick still wanted to know the identity of the author, Lucius would be the next on the list.

He sighed. This case needed to be solved, and solved fast. He had burned his bridge with Shacklebolt. That was all right with him; it had been so much more satisfying to speak his mind in that instance. He was fairly certain he could get Auror Dawlish to keep him informed on the twists and turns of the case, at the very least.

When he got back to Italy, he was going to have to cast wards around the villa. It had been mostly ward-free before. He couldn't afford to leave it that way now. It would serve a double purpose, since the Ministry and his family now knew where he was. If anyone showed up unexpectedly he would have warning and be able to ensure that he and Hermione weren't discovered.

It wasn't as if he didn't have other places to go. However, Hermione was in school in Florence and there was something about Italy that relaxed him. It was one of the few places where he had more positive memories than negative ones. Writing came easily there.

That was it, then. He exhaled. Now all he had to do was work off his frustration at Shacklebolt. The only question was how.

* * *

Draco had gone up to his room, intent upon showering and then seeing if he could find anyone to go out with. Blaise owed him a dinner from a bet they'd made a few weeks ago, and he hadn't spoken to Greg in a while. Not that Gregory Goyle was a great conversationalist, or anything…but he was a good pub mate.

He was a bit startled when he emerged from the shower and his father was standing in his room, arms clasped behind his back. Of course Draco had walked out of the bathroom naked. In theory, he was supposed to have privacy. Sometimes his parents had no concept of that.

Lucius turned and Draco groped for the shorts he'd dropped near the door. Considerately, his father turned away, but not without a slight roll of his eyes.

"Nothing I haven't seen before, Draco."

"You could've knocked," Draco grumped, yanking the shorts on.

"You were in the shower when I came in. Most people wear a robe, or at the very least a towel."

"I shouldn't have to in my own room. You can turn around now."

Lucius pivoted. "Are you going out?"

"I was thinking of it." Draco padded over to his closet and began to poke through it.

"Well, I shan't interfere with your plans, then."

With a frown, Draco turned to face his father once again. "There are no plans yet. What did you want?"

"To see if you would help me with something."

"Depends what it is," he answered cautiously.

His father bit his lower lip for a moment; when he released it, there was a flash of blanched teeth marks before the blood rushed back to his skin. "I want you to help me release the spirits from the old dining room."

Draco went pale. He couldn't help it. None of them had been in there since the war's end. It was shut up like a mausoleum, a cursed tomb that no one dared to visit.

At least six people had died in there – and those were only the ones Draco had directly witnessed or heard of. It was possible that many more had met their fates like the Muggle Studies teacher, as dinner entertainment. He still couldn't believe he had shared a table, let alone a set of beliefs, with people who were so heartless that death became a routine spectacle over pork chops.

Draco was terrified even at the thought of going in there after so long. It heartened him, though, that his father was also unwilling to go in alone. It meant that his fear was not so irrational. It also meant that his father believed him to be strong enough to handle it…strong enough to contribute to the room's cleansing.

"Tonight?" he asked at last, exercising considerable will to keep his voice level.

"I am returning to Italy tomorrow, so yes, tonight. If you would rather go out, I will understand. It can wait."

Summoning every ounce of courage he had, Draco shook his head. "It's waited years already. I'll help you."

Lucius exhaled. "All right. We'll need to consult a few books in the library first."

"I'll meet you down there in fifteen minutes?"

"Fifteen minutes," his sire said with an indecipherable little smile.

* * *

He found his son deep within the shelves of the library. Lucius took a moment to observe him. Draco had never been an overly studious boy; as long as he paid close attention to something, he would understand and remember it. It was an unfamiliar sight to behold, then, to see his blond crown bowed over a book.

In his concentration, he looked determined. No fear or anxiety intruded on his face and that was a great comfort to Lucius. It was a lot to ask to request Draco's assistance in this task.

He could remember the sickly pallor the young man's face had taken on whenever there were gatherings in that dining room. He had been able to control his emotions, locking them away somewhere with an iron will, but he couldn't control his body's natural reactions to witnessing terrible things and not being able to do anything about them. Lucius had a sneaking suspicion that there was a hero locked away inside Draco in that same place – a hero who was tempered by the irrefutable logic that he was no good to anybody if he became a martyr.

He knew Draco struggled with that. Many had gone stubbornly to their deaths in the war. Like Draco, many had also chosen a route that was far less glamorous – survival by any means necessary. He felt his lips pull into a slight sneer. There was no glamor in war. Only those who foolishly believed there was, or those who had never been touched by its greasy fingers, could exist to make judgments.

The greasy fingers of war, terror, and madness had left broad smears all over his ancestral home and those who lived in it. To some degree he had let it happen. No more. Tonight was the start of the cleansing…and he would scrub as hard as he had to.

* * *

Harry yawned as he stepped off the lift into the main concourse of the Ministry. Ron was right behind him. He looked as grumpy as Harry felt. They had just gotten out of meeting with the Minister, during which Kingsley had informed them that they never should have been put on Malfoy's case in the first place. It was poor judgment by Head Auror Pell, who was now _ex_ Head Auror Pell. However, Kingsley was very impressed by their impartiality and maturity and had praised them thoroughly.

That wasn't the part that made them grumpy. It was when Shacklebolt told them that the evidence they had found was partially responsible for clearing Malfoy. Harry had wanted to be fair but never in a hundred years would he have thought Malfoy was actually innocent, or that his sleuthing would contribute to ensuring the loathsome pureblood's continued freedom.

"Ugh," Ron said as they neared the floo network. "I still can't believe it."

"I know," Harry agreed. "I guess we'll never know whose knickers those were."

"I guess not. I'm going to go to the Burrow and eat about five helpings of my mother's cooking. Want to join me?"

"No, that's all right. Ginny's cooking."

"You're going to check on Hermione, right?"

"Yes, after dinner."

"Okay," he nodded as he grabbed a handful of floo powder. "Later, mate." Ron called out his destination and disappeared into the flames. Harry was left in the mostly empty hall; it was after hours and all the sensible people were at home. He reached for his own handful of powder.

Just then, a voice sounded.

"I know whose knickers they were."

"What?" Harry said, turning. His eyes surveyed a woman; she was tall and quite skinny, with curly red hair. She had an odd discoloration across the skin of her face. She seemed vaguely familiar, but Harry couldn't place her.

"The knickers you and Weasley found at Malfoy's villa. I know who they belong to."

"The Minister ordered the evidence destroyed, so I don't see how you could possibly know."

"I work down in forensics. I ran the DNA matching spells before destroying the evidence. Curiosity killed the cat, you know." She smirked.

Harry frowned at her. Something in his gut told him that he didn't like her. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Oh, you don't remember me? That's surprising. You were so very sweet on my best friend during school."

Harry frowned. He could barely recall being 'sweet' on anyone, before Ginny. Ah, but there had been Cho. This woman was Cho's friend?

One more glance at her face had things aligning in his brain. She was Marietta Edgecombe, the girl who had betrayed them fifth year. She had told Umbridge and the Ministry about Dumbledore's Army. That would be why he didn't like her.

"I can see you're still great at keeping secrets," he said caustically.

"Aren't we all?" she responded. "Your friend Granger more than most."

"What do you mean?" he snapped. He was becoming irritated with her smugness. He was tired and hungry and he just wanted to go home.

"The knickers were hers."

Harry stared at the redhead. "Yeah, right. You must think I'm a complete idiot."

"I knew you wouldn't believe me." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. "So here's your proof."

Against his better judgment, Harry took the paper. It looked every inch an official DNA analysis report. Epithelials had been analyzed and matched to one Hermione Granger – whose DNA _would_ be in their system after the wicked hex she'd taken from Dolohov, resulting in her spending weeks in hospital. Marietta's credentials were at the top as they were required to be. Such reports had to designate who had completed them.

"Did you file this?" he asked slowly.

"No."

"How do I know this isn't just a fake? I know you hate Hermione. This would be a great way to discredit her, wouldn't it?"

"You're smarter than you look," Marietta sneered.

"Well, the last time I checked it was you that had SNEAK written across her face, not Hermione," Harry snarled back.

"It's not a fake," she said coldly, "but that one you're holding is a copy. I have the original readout."

He was beginning to understand. "What is it that you want, Marietta?"

"What do I want?" She stepped closer, her eyes ablaze with anger and hatred. "I want that little bitch Granger to give me the counterjinx. I'm tired of looking like this."

"Then why are you telling me?" Harry demanded, his voice rising in volume.

"I just want to show her how serious I am. She'll get a letter from me soon enough."

"That's blackmail."

Marietta stepped back, the grin on her face a blatant dare. "Report me, then."

They both knew that he couldn't – not without showing people the DNA analysis results. Whether it was true or not, it was the kind of thing that could destroy Hermione. Harry couldn't risk it. For the time being, Marietta won.

She knew it. She lifted her hand to wave and said in a saccharine voice, "Good night, Harry."


	26. Chapter 26

Author's Note: Thanks as always for being such wonderful and supportive readers. Thanks in particular to Kazfeist, who helped me out immensely with this chapter. The exorcism spell (adapted from the traditional Catholic Rite of Exorcism) is her baby, so please direct some love at her!

* * *

Two blond wizards met before a door that had not been opened in three and a half years. It had been so long that neither remembered what the hallway looked like without the broad, blank mahogany of the door. They remembered only too well what lay behind it.

"The wards are in place?" Lucius said softly. He had sent Draco to secure the south and west portions of the house and he had gone to do the north and east. The wards were to ensure the house's stability and protection, inside and out. When one chose to cast out dark spirits, the doorway had to be opened wider into that realm. Without wards, they could actually end up doing more harm than good.

Draco nodded. "Did you warn Mum?"

"She isn't here. I'm not sure where she's gone." That was interesting, indeed. Invitations to social events had been scarce since the war's end in spite of Narcissa's role in saving Harry Potter. She had adjusted to spending many nights at home. She rarely went out without an invitation and to his knowledge there hadn't been one for tonight – but it was not as if she had been discussing her plans with him for the last few months, anyhow.

"Okay. How long is this going to take?"

"I have no idea." Lucius stared at the door, the furrow between his brows appearing. "We don't know exactly what we're up against."

Draco sighed. "That's the part I don't like."

With a long exhale, Lucius took a step forward. He lifted his hand and tried to push through his instinctual hesitation, but the slight jerk in the movement betrayed him. He licked his lips and took out his wand.

"We'll never know if we don't go in."

"Wouldn't it be easier to just…leave it be?"

Lucius raised his wand in front of him as his other hand closed around the cold doorknob. "Easier, yes. But I am not in any mood to surrender part of my house to a dead demon that made my life miserable for years. Are you?"

Draco's eyes turned hard and flinty. Just like that, his entire demeanor changed. He extracted his wand from his pocket and raised it in both hands, expressing in no uncertain terms that he had his father's back.

"Well, when you put it like that…" he nodded once, sharply, "let's go."

The door gave so easily that it felt deceptively normal. No force beyond their will had kept it shut, at least from the outside. As they would soon find out, the inside was a different story.

Lucius was no fool. He knew the Dark Lord didn't like to admit defeat or let go of anything. He had left his stamp upon the Manor. It would be here more than anywhere else. The trouble was that he had not seen the room after his death; many curses only went into effect _after_ the caster was dead.

The good thing about the Manor, though, was that the door would not have admitted them if whatever was contained within would cause them any serious harm. They were ancient wards, very protective, and the Dark Lord had struggled with them more than once during his unwieldy reign over the domicile. He had commented on several occasions that the Manor was a finicky, fickle bitch, much in line with the family it housed.

He released the door knob quickly and whispered, "Lumos."

"We should have done this during the day," Draco murmured behind him, echoing his father's thoughts exactly.

"Too late now." He stepped in. Draco stealthily moved to his side and lit his own wand.

What met their sight didn't seem out of the ordinary. There was the long dining table, its many brocade-upholstered chairs, and a candelabrum that still bore some crusted wax. The fireplace sat neglected on one end of the room, in dire need of a sweep. On the other end, behind the head of the table, a mirror loomed. Lucius frowned. The mirror had gone cloudy and dull, as if the smoke and heat from a fire had distorted it.

It was cold. Draco pursed his lips and blew an amorphous cloud of steamy air in front of him, watching it curl, undulate, and then disappear. It was winter and it had been a long time since a fire had graced the room, but it shouldn't have been that cold. The Manor was well insulated. This was purely paranormal.

There was no question that there were ghosts present. What they didn't know was how many and what temperament they bore. Lucius expected the worst. They had died in his house, after all.

For now, there was only silence. It was heavy and thick, snuffing at their light and muting their already quiet words. The atmosphere felt stagnant. Amid that stagnance, a sound reached Lucius's ear.

It was low, rasping, and rough, like a piece of paper being dragged across a floor. He knew that sound. He had heard it so many times, especially in the sinuous rhythm it took on.

That was the sound of a large snake's body as it glided across the floor.

* * *

Narcissa couldn't stop fidgeting. It had been a long time since she recalled feeling this nervous. Perhaps nervous wasn't the right word. No, she was terrified.

She didn't know what had driven her to do this. This was a crazy idea. She was better off just sitting at home, enjoying the last day she would have with both her son and his father. Lucius had made it clear that he wasn't staying and that though he wished to remain friends, there was little hope of rekindling their relationship beyond that. She bore no delusions that she would be seeing him frequently.

He belonged to another now. She made him happy, whoever she was - happy, mellow, and patient. She was a miracle worker.

Narcissa sighed and fervently hoped that she could borrow some of that miracle for herself.

* * *

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Draco whispered.

Lucius listened hard, trying to pinpoint exactly where it was coming from. "Things left behind…" he trailed off. He couldn't figure out where the snake was. Its sound was everywhere. He turned in a slow circle, straining his eyes for any sign of movement, any gleam of serpentine skin.

Draco's breath was coming a bit faster, puffing out in front of him. He wished that it was not so quiet. The longer he had to wait for something to happen, the more he dreaded it.

He didn't have to wait much longer. A few seconds later, he heard his father inhale sharply through his teeth. His back curved, his hair falling in a pale curtain forward over his shoulders. In the dim light of his Lumos, Draco could see him clenching his left arm, his face white and drawn with pain.

"Father!" he gasped, closing the short distance between them.

* * *

She raised her hand to knock on the door, and, for the third time, dropped it.

"Oh, honestly, Narcissa!" she admonished herself. Determined, she lifted her hand once again and forced herself to rap upon the painted wood.

_Thunk thunk thunk_.

That wasn't the bad part. It was the waiting that was awful. Swallowing, she stepped back from the door. A few long seconds passed. Then she heard the click of footsteps, as if someone was descending a staircase.

"Just a moment!" a female voice called. A cold flush went through her at the sound of it. That voice…it hadn't changed a bit.

She had no time to process her emotions. At that instant, the door opened…and she was face to face with her sister for the first time in more than two decades.

* * *

He was bleeding. Worse still, the blood that seeped through his white shirtsleeve was in the shape of the Dark Mark.

"What's happening, father?" he beseeched, shaking him. Lucius appeared paralyzed with pain. His eyes were clenched shut, his lips pulled back from his teeth, and every muscle in his body taut with agony.

"I can tell you what is happening," a sinister voice echoed.

Draco felt the burn of bile edging up his esophagus. He forced it down and turned to the source of that heinous voice, praying every second that it would not be who and what he thought it was.

It was and it wasn't. The cloudy mirror had flared to life and now resembled a giant portrait. Framed in its silvery murk was the Dark Lord as Draco remembered him. Bald, white, nearly translucent, with eyes the color of a river of blood, and that horrible smugness that broadcast to everyone that he was one step ahead of you and didn't care about the rules.

"You!" he spat hatefully. "You're dead! Leave us alone!"

"You are bigger fools than I thought if you believe you can ever be rid of me," the portrait growled. "I've been waiting for you." The portrait Voldemort cocked his head to the side and his almost nonexistent lips pulled into a cold grin. "Are you ready to die, boy?"

"You can't kill me," Draco sneered, leveling his wand at the portrait.

"You're right…_I _can't." The portrait laughed mirthlessly and pointed a long, skeletal finger at the hunched form of Lucius. "But he can."

* * *

He wanted to scream but felt like the air was trapped in his lungs. The pain was intense, all-encompassing, like an hour-long bout of the sadistic Cruciatus training he had endured so many years ago. The times when the Dark Lord would hit him with the curse again and again, and he would try desperately not to scream, not to cry, to be immune to it, because that was his salvation. That was what would make him stop hurting, stop fearing. When pain lost its meaning there was nothing left to fear.

For a while, there _had_ been nothing to fear. It was a relief, but it was also very empty. Then his entire life changed. He was granted an exceptional gift, one that caused the fear of loss to return. However, in this case he couldn't find anything wrong with fearing the loss of his little boy. It was normal. It was what a parent – a _father_ – was supposed to feel.

And that was what flooded him beyond all reason when suddenly the pain began to ease and he could open his eyes. The first thing he saw was the vibrant smear of blood that had soaked his shirtsleeve and was now trickling down his palm. The next was his son, his face full of confused trepidation, and the pale white hand that emerged over his right shoulder.

The scream finally came out of him.

"Draco!"

His beautiful grey eyes widened just as the blade dragged across the soft skin of his throat. He could see the metal disappearing into the gap where flesh parted from flesh, digging deeply into the structures of his neck, and as it moved the blood began to spurt.

* * *

Something was controlling his father. He knew it instantly; why else would his eyes widen in terror like that when nothing was happening? He was seeing something terrible – hallucinating. Draco was willing to bet that it had something to do with him.

That was confirmed when his father released a soul-shredding scream. It made his skin crawl with gooseflesh. He had never heard anything like that issue from his sire, and he could conclusively say he never wanted to hear it again.

"Father, it's not real!" he shouted.

Lucius didn't (or couldn't) hear him. His face morphed from sorrow to pure, animalistic hatred in an instant.

"You gave me nothing but pain!" his father roared, his voice raw. Draco recoiled from the force of it, fear settling in his gut. He had no idea what to do. Perhaps stunning him was the only choice he had.

But his short reprieve was over, evaporated with his father's sanity. Draco only had time to lift his wand before his father sprang.

* * *

His son had fallen, gasping air and blood and spittle as he died. His lifeblood soaked the carpet in rhythmic, fading bursts, the opened jugular and carotid vomiting their contents to the cold room. Voldemort towered above his twitching body, bloody knife in hand.

"Did you think you could escape without consequences? Did you think you could be disloyal to _me_ and walk away unscathed? DID YOU, Lucius?" he thundered. "After everything I did for you! After _everything _I gave you, you ungrateful son of a whore!"

"You gave me nothing but pain!" he screamed, red spots blinking before his eyes. He felt that line inside his brain, the one that kept him from falling over the edge of insanity, wavering. Then it fractured into a thousand tiny little pieces and he only knew rage.

* * *

Draco's instincts were good. He sidestepped, but even as his father hit the ground, he was scrambling to capture his prey. His hand flashed out and clamped around Draco's ankle, pulling his leg savagely out from under him. Draco found himself rapidly speeding toward the ground with absolutely no control over his landing.

He met the wood floor jarringly and knew that his wand had been knocked out of his hand. Draco made a desperate lunge for the scrap of wood, but Lucius was pulling him by the leg, dragging him away from it. He did the only thing he could: he kicked with his other leg, catching his father harshly in the jaw.

The force of it was enough to knock Lucius back. Draco half crawled, half stumbled to his wand, knowing it was his only chance. Just as his fingers closed around it, he felt the vice-like force of his father's grip on his leg again. Merlin, he was fast! Draco tried to kick again, but Lucius was ready and dodged it.

Now he was at even more of a disadvantage, for the momentum of the missed kick had turned him over onto his back. Frantically, he brought his wand up and shouted.

"Stupe--ahhh!"

Pain exploded in angry ripples as his father viciously grabbed his hand, heedless of the wand, and slammed it down into the floor. Loud, pronounced cracks told him that at least two bones had broken from the impact. His hand released automatically and Lucius was quick to pluck the wand away.

Then the substantial weight of his tall, solid father was upon him. He was running out of options. Thinking through the haze of pain, Draco prepared himself to try wandless magic when his father's hand clamped around his neck. It squeezed mercilessly, crushing any hope of breath or voice from Draco.

Whatever Lucius was seeing, it was not reality. Draco struggled for breath. His mind raced, urgently groping for a solution. He thought he found one when he managed to free one of his hands. With a brutal twist, he pulled the wand away from his father. Lucius seemed to not even care. He simply moved his other hand to join the first in crushing the life out of his perceived enemy.

Draco knew this was his only chance. He would have to use his magic without speaking. It was a long shot; he'd never been great at that beyond simple charms. Squeezing his eyes shut, Draco thought the words as forcefully as he could.

_Levicorpus! Levicorpus levicorpus levicorpus LEVICORPUS!_

In some kind of miracle, it worked. Lucius was yanked up and away from him. He tried to hold on in spite of it, actually lifting Draco a foot off the floor before his hands slid, nails scraping along Draco's neck, and released.

He gasped for breath, fighting the black spots that danced before his eyes and the pain in his throat. He could not pass out. He would never wake up. Whatever curse was upon this room had driven his father mad. He would kill him.

But he couldn't get enough air. Draco felt like he couldn't control his own body; something was off between his mind and his muscles and limbs wouldn't do what he wanted. His concentration was wavering. Maybe he had been without oxygen for too long…

He heard the tell-tale sound of his father crashing to the ground. He hadn't been able to hold the spell. Thankfully, Lucius hit the edge of the table as he fell and was temporarily stunned.

Both Malfoys lay there, recovering from different ills. Draco knew he had to get away. He had to get out of here. There was no choice but to leave his father until he could figure out some way to stop it. Merlin, they never should have come in here!

Still gasping, Draco groped to his feet. Lucius was beginning to recuperate. He moved groggily to his knees, clutching the leg of the table for support. Draco stumbled toward the door. He reached it just as Lucius regained his feet. With one last look at his father, Draco turned the knob.

Or tried to.

Nothing happened. It wouldn't budge. He couldn't get out.

"Fuck," he breathed. Now his only choice was to incapacitate his father somehow. Draco turned back to him and was startled to see how close he already was; there were only a few feet between them, and Lucius had his wand in hand.

Reflexively, Draco raised his. It was with no real hope at all. In a head to head duel against his father, he would always lose. The gleam in his father's tormented eyes guaranteed it.

"You could kill him, you know," the mirrored portrait spoke up smugly. "It's him or you, Draco."

"Shut up!" Draco shouted. "Father, please, it's me! It's Draco. I'm here, I'm safe. He's manipulating you!"

"He can't hear you," Voldemort laughed. "He will only be able to hear your silence after he kills you. Whatever will he do then?"

* * *

His head hurt and he couldn't see the Dark Lord clearly, but by Merlin, he didn't need to in order to kill him.

"Accio…candelabrum," he panted. The son of a bitch was going to die the same way his son had. He was going to die suffocating on his own blood. With gritted teeth, he transfigured the candelabrum into a long, serrated knife. He didn't want to see it cut through the pale flesh like so much butter as it had on Draco. He wanted that knife to be dull and full of jagged teeth. He wanted to hurt, rip, and tear, and watch his beady red eyes while he died.

* * *

Draco was beginning to think he was really going to die. His father now held a knife and a wand and the look on his face was one of grim, murderous determination.

"Expelliarmus!" he shouted, jabbing his wand. His heart began to pound as his father deflected the spell as if he had done little more than throw a pillow at him. That wouldn't work. "Stupefy!" he attempted. Another slash of his father's wand absorbed the red jet of light.

What the hell else could he use without seriously injuring him? Reducto could end badly. He wouldn't be caught with Levicorpus again. Rictusempra? No, it would be far too twisted to be killed by his own father while the aforementioned was laughing uncontrollably.

In a last ditch effort, Draco feinted, lunging as if he was going to cast a spell. Lucius fell for it and cast a shield charm. In the moment it faded and his father was unprepared, Draco used his last chance.

"Petrificus Totalis!"

By all rules of age and infirmity, Lucius should not have been able to dodge it. It was heading for his midsection. Draco knew from experience that that was one of the hardest places to avoid being hit because it didn't move as freely as a head, arm, or leg.

For one terrifying moment, he thought he had somehow missed. But then his father's muscles went rigid. Draco only just managed to cast a quick cushioning charm so that Lucius wasn't further injured when he crashed to the floor. He stood there panting in disbelief that he had been able to win a duel against his father. As he did, many aches that adrenaline had previously dulled made themselves known.

His ribs hurt. His neck and throat were throbbing. The hand his father had smashed against the floor was purple and swelling rapidly. A slight shudder went through Draco; he had a feeling he had gotten a glimpse of the way his father had been during his worst Death Eater days. The others had whispered about his ruthlessness and were simultaneously relieved and mocking that his heir wasn't anything like him.

Draco had never seen that man. The worst he'd experienced as a child was a certain aloofness. Lucius had a temper, that was for certain, but he had never, ever directed it at Draco or his mother. He also had high expectations and was very good at making people feel like they were an inch tall when they weren't met. While he'd been a tad strict and heavy-handed, it could hardly be considered abusive.

Now he knew that his father could be absolutely vicious. That was scary as hell and for a few minutes there he thought he was really going to die, but until he knew what had caused Lucius to snap like that, he would reserve his judgment. If Voldemort was in his mind Draco might have behaved the same way.

"You are lucky, boy," the mirror-portrait said, as if on cue. "But the spell won't last forever. He will wake and you will have to defend yourself all over again."

"Shut up." Draco paced and tried to gather the tattered ends of his thoughts together.

"Just kill him now. Kill him, or he'll kill you." The portrait smirked. "You already know you can't get out."

Oh, Merlin. If he truly couldn't get out, he would be fighting an endless battle against his crazed father. If he didn't die that way, he would die of hunger or thirst. They both would.

He had to end this now. Swallowing, Draco turned to his father's motionless body and crouched down next to him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the long spell they'd constructed to cleanse the room.

They were supposed to do it together. It wasn't meant to work with just one person, and certainly not just for Draco. Lucius was the master of the house; the magic only recognized _him_ as such. Draco had some pull as heir and that was why he was necessary, but the greater part of the power in the spell was meant to come from his father.

He looked over the splay of Latin written in his father's elegant scrawl. He needed to believe that he could do this. There was no chance if he didn't. With a deep breath, Draco rose and prayed that his battered throat could recite it all.

* * *

Andromeda stared at her, hazel eyes wide and stunned. Narcissa waited. That was all she could do. There weren't any words to offer; it was up to Andromeda to determine the course of this encounter. Narcissa's presence was signal enough that she wished to start reversing all the damage she had done. Andromeda would either accept it or reject it. Either way, Narcissa would have to live with her choice.

"Why are you here?" Andromeda said quite abruptly, snapping out of her shock.

"I…I just wanted to see you."

"About what?" her sister snapped. "What can't your ex-husband provide you with?"

Narcissa blinked. She hadn't expected her sister's attitude to hurt quite so much. Andromeda was definitely entitled to it so she couldn't complain. She could only weather it…and hope.

"I just thought that…well, we're sisters, and you have the baby…maybe you'd like a break or…just…"

Oh, heaven help her. She was not expressing herself particularly well. Andromeda's eyes narrowed.

"The baby? Narcissa, he's four. He's not a baby anymore."

"I know."

"Do you even know his name?"

"Teddy," she said. "His name is Teddy."

Andromeda shifted from one foot to the other. For a second, Narcissa thought she had won her over. Then a dark look crossed her sister's face.

"You have the nerve to come to my door now? I can forgive a lot of things, Narcissa. I can forgive you for being stupid and prejudiced because that's how we were raised and that's the society you were part of. I can forgive you for not talking to me for twenty-two years. I can even forgive you for allowing your family to become so entangled in Death Eater madness. But what I absolutely cannot forgive you for is looking the other way when _my husband_ and _my daughter_ died!" She shook her head, tears pooling in her eyes. "Not even a card, Narcissa. Not one flower! You couldn't spare one little note to extend condolences to your sister, your widowed sister, who outlived her only child!"

Narcissa felt the hot burn of shame filling her gut. The fact was, Andromeda was right. She hadn't done anything when she heard the news. She had thought about it, agonized over it, but in the end, she had done nothing.

"I know," she whispered. "It was terrible of me. I'm certain that an apology is very little comfort, but I am truly sorry. Andromeda, I'm sorry for everything."

"Well, I'm very happy that you have finally learned how to apologize, Narcissa, but I don't need it. You aren't welcome here. Goodbye."

With that, Andromeda slammed the door in her face.

* * *

"It won't work."

Draco nearly jumped out of his skin at the feminine voice that issued just behind him. He whirled, almost tripping over his father. Across from him was the faint outline of a woman who had haunted his dreams for a long, long time.

Charity Burbage. She had been a pretty enough woman, young, idealistic, and confident. Her ghost didn't look the way she had when she died. Draco was endlessly thankful for that.

He had completely forgotten about the ghosts; Voldemort's malicious remnant had commanded all of his attention. When he was there, even a leftover, pre-programmed illusion of him, a few cranky ghosts seemed trivial. Draco stared at her, unsure what to expect. Ghosts could be very vengeful and if they wanted to they could cause damage to just about anything. She had already caught him unawares, though, and if she had wished him harm it would have been easier to perpetrate without his notice.

"The spell won't work," she repeated, her voice echoing ominously in the cold room. "Not on your own."

"Be silent, filth," the portrait commanded. She ignored it. Draco tried his best to ignore the sheer loathing in that evil voice, too.

"How do you know?" he asked cautiously.

"It is meant for both of you."

Draco bit his lips. He knew that.

"Then…what can I do?" He had not meant for his voice to sound so small or frightened.

"You can do nothing, boy, except die cooperatively," the Dark Lord growled. "Fools, all of you, to think you can forget me so easily!"

_Easily?_ Draco thought. _Nothing has been easy, least of all forgetting…_ But he would not give the nasty creature the satisfaction of knowing that, egocentric bastard that he was and continued to be, even in death.

"He is right," Burbage said quietly. "You can do nothing." She drifted around, turning to face the cloudy mirror. "But _I_ can do something."

Before Draco could utter a word, the ghost of Charity Burbage rose gracefully and then appeared to swan dive straight into his father's chest.

* * *

She had begun to walk after the encounter with Andromeda, and only now, an hour later, was she even comprehending where she was. She was deep within Muggle London. The neighborhood didn't appear to be dangerous and there weren't many passers-by. Right now she was glad of the anonymity.

There was just one problem. The shock had worn off, and now she was perilously close to tears. Not just a little cry. She could feel heaving, gasping, uncontrollable sobs welling up in her chest.

She didn't want to go back to the Manor. If Lucius or Draco saw her, an explanation would be required and she wasn't ready to share the shame of her rejection with them. The sad fact was that she really had nowhere else to go. With that knowledge foremost in her mind, she stepped into an alleyway and Apparated.

* * *

A light broke through his misery. It punched through the wall of images, sounds, and sensations like an iron fist. The shards of it shivered down upon him and Lucius groaned at the pain that gripped his body. He couldn't move, he was losing his mind, everything was wrong and he couldn't stop it…

He could still see the faces, the faces of everyone who had ever tormented him and of those he had tormented. They leered, cried, shouted, condemned, mocked…a circle of madness. He thought that _she_ was one of them. _She_ had died suspended above his dining room table after spending thirteen days in his dungeon, thirteen days in which he knew others had done unspeakable things to her. It didn't matter that he hadn't. None of it mattered.

But she was speaking and instead of the jumbled slurs, he understood the words. Her voice rode over the din.

"You must wake up. This isn't real. None of it is real."

He couldn't speak in return. He struggled with the meaning of all that. Everything seemed so real. The colors were vivid, the voices sharp, the touch and smell and taste poignant, and the pain, oh, Merlin, the pain…!

"It's a curse. Voldemort left a curse to punish those who presented him with a face of loyalty but a heart of betrayal. I saw him do it. He was going to activate it and use it to kill your family after he returned victorious from the war."

A curse.

"M…my…son…" he choked, unsure if he was really speaking or just wanting to so badly that he imagined it.

"He is not affected."

Lucius knew why. Draco had never been loyal to the Dark Lord. He had taken the mark out of necessity, performed his duties out of necessity, and Voldemort had always known that. Lucius, on the other hand, had been slavishly devoted in the beginning. His loyalty had eroded over time as the life returned to him. All that remained of it now was anger and regret.

"Not…dead," he murmured to himself.

"Yes," she said with a smile. Already the others around him were fading; she stood out in greater contrast against the blackness that had invaded his mind. Lucius clung to her image desperately, trying to filter everything else away. It proved impossible. She was defined, though, clear and corporeal and walking toward him. She knelt. "You must resist this."

"How do I…how do I know what is real and what isn't?" he whispered.

"All you have to know is that your son is alive. If you want to keep him that way, you must perform the spell you wrote with him. No matter what you see or feel or hear, you must do the spell!"

"I can't move."

She nodded. "When I leave your body you'll be able to."

The thought of it panicked him. "No! No, you can't leave." Merlin, he didn't even know her name. "You can't…I had no control before and I'll lose it again."

"You won't," she replied firmly. "It's a matter of willpower. You have enough will to save your son, don't you?"

"Yes!" A resounding yes.

"Then get ready…" she warned. All too quickly, her ghostly body lifted up and away from him and she was gone.

* * *

Draco watched, unbearably tense as a very long minute passed. Outwardly, his father gave no sign of anything. He was still Petrified. Inwardly, Draco was sure that nothing short of a hurricane was taking place.

Burbage had more or less possessed him. Possession by a ghost was not as strong as possession by a demon, but it still wasn't comfortable. That was why people felt so strange and violated when a ghost traveled through them. He'd had the misfortune of receiving that treatment from the Bloody Baron once and it had felt like there were insects crawling all over his skin. The sensation of another mind inside his had been incredibly disconcerting, as well. He could only imagine what it felt like for an extended period of time.

At that moment, the white form of Charity Burbage ascended back into the cold room. His father's body arched upwards, as if she was pulling him. Then he took a great, gasping breath that was so loud that Draco jumped.

He groped for his wand. What had Burbage done? Was he going to have to stun or petrify his father again? His knuckles were white on his wand as he waited for the answer.

Lucius pulled himself to his knees. It appeared that it was a very great effort to do so. His face was taut and nearly feral with agony, so human and inhuman at the same time. Then, in an action that was viscerally shocking to Draco, his father leaned forward on his hands and crawled across the floor.

"The…spell," he pleaded. "Must do the spell."

Draco's hands shook as he fumbled for the piece of paper. Though it had been his father's own foolishness that led them to this place, this horrid moment, he hated to see his father suffering. Lucius's hands also shook when at last he took the parchment.

"Don't let me stop. No matter what. Even if you have to use Imperius," he ground out, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "Do you promise?"

"I p-promise," Draco responded without thinking.

"Please, Merlin, let it work," his father whispered.

* * *

A worm of concern penetrated Narcissa's melancholy when she stepped back into the Manor. Something felt off. The wards had made her skin feel the tiniest bit itchy and…she frowned. It was as if the Manor was holding its breath.

Something was wrong. Her self-pity could wait. Dropping her things, she strode quickly out of her room to find Lucius and Draco.

* * *

He felt like he had only the most precarious of holds on his sanity. He could see Draco, but he still bore the gruesome injury of his hallucinations. He was so very pale, his front covered in blood, the gaping wound across his neck like a red mouth. It made him sick to his stomach.

So did the tastes and smells invading his senses. They weren't real, he _knew_ they weren't real, but that didn't lessen the horror of them. He fought the shame and anger they spurred. He couldn't begin to recite the spell until he had mastered his urge to vomit.

Willpower. He needed willpower. He needed something to counteract the images, for Draco was not the only one that plagued him. In his eyes, the room was filled with everyone he never wanted to see again. There was Bellatrix, a leering Mulciber, the Muggle beast of his nightmares, his mother, his father, oh, God, a young version of _himself_, naked and covered in blood and grass.

He thought he knew what he feared most. He was wrong, wrong, wrong. This was awful. To be truly insane, unable to tell the difference between reality and fantasy, was the most terrible thing he had ever experienced. And yet…paradoxically, that gave him strength.

If this was the worst thing he had ever endured, everything else he saw was robbed of its power. The fear came from the betrayal of his senses. It didn't come from their manifestations. They were plucked from the memories in his brain, things from his past that had imprinted in spite of his best efforts to prevent it. But they _were_ the past, and all these people, these tormentors, were dead to him. No matter how his unbalanced brain wanted to bring them back, they were dead.

They were dead, Draco was alive, and even if he had well and truly lost his mind, it was still _his_ mind. Gritting his teeth, Lucius lifted the parchment and began to read.

* * *

His father's voice was small and pained when he began.

"_Exorcizo te, immundíssime spíritus, omnis adversárii, omne phantasma,__discedere, nunc et infinitió, ab locó natió meó . Ipse tibi ímperat, qui Rector loci heius, per Sanguinem et Nominem se, est_."

**(I command you, unclean spirit, and all your spectres, your armies and companions,** **to depart, now and forever, from the place of my birth. It is he who commands you,** **who is Master, by his Blood and Name, of this place.) **

Draco knew it was his turn. He swallowed once, for his throat was very dry. His voice was still a low rasp when he spoke. "_Ipse tibi ímperat, qui Heres loci heius, per Sanguinem et Nominem se, est_."

**(It is he who commands you, who is Heir, by his Blood and Name, of this place.)**

Seeming to gather some kind of indefinable spirit, Lucius went on, his voice stronger now. "_Adjuro te, serpens antíque, per vox Merlini et Morganae, Magistri et Sapientes antiquis, ut ab hoc discédas. Adjúro te íterum , non mea infirmitáte, sed virtúte amoris et honoris, ut éxeas ab hoc domiciliae familiae meae, Familiae Malefidei. Non resístas nec moréris discédere ab domiciliá ista_." Lucius looked at him. His eyes were still wide and seeing things that weren't there, but they burned with determination. "_Imperat tibi Lucius_."

**(I adjure you, ancient serpent, by the power of Merlin and Morgana, ancient Mages and Sages, that you should depart from here. I adjure you again, not by my weakness but by virtue of love and honor, that** **you depart from this, my family home, that of the Malfoy Family. Neither resist nor delay** **to depart from this home. Lucius commands you.) **

"_Imperat tibi Draco_," he echoed. Then, in unison with his father, Draco said, "_Imperat tibi Abraxas_." He had been assured that his grandfather had despised the Dark Lord and were he alive, he would not want any remnant of him in his ancestral home, either. It was one of the only favorable things he'd ever heard his father say about the man.

(**Draco commands you. Abraxas commands you.)**

Lucius picked up again. "_Cede, ergo, Domini legitimi domiciliae illae, locum item. Discédite a nos, maledícti, in ignem ætérnum_!" He struggled to his feet. "_Adjuro ergo te, omnis immundíssime spíritus, omne phantásma, tu Voldemorte, in nómini Luci Malefidei, Magister domiciliae istius, recedere_!"

**(Yield, therefore, to the rightful Master of this home, this very place. Depart from us, accursed one, into eternal fire!** **I adjure you, therefore, every unclean spirit, every evil spectre, you, Voldemorte,** **in the name of Lucius Malfoy, Master of this house, to depart!)**

Now his voice was loud, booming, once again imbued with its customary power and arrogance. Draco felt his fear give way to something else. What, he couldn't really define. His father was shouting and he could feel the energy, the pure magic gathering in the room.

"_Ille te ejéctit! Ille te expellit! Ille te exclúdit: de cujos ore exíbit gládius acútus_!"

**(It is he who casts you out! It is he who expels you! It is he who repels you, from whose mouth comes a sharp sword!)**

As the words left his mouth, a roaring, screaming rush filled the room. Draco pressed his hands to his ears reflexively. He could feel the wind of it on his skin. It was so _loud_! Magic made a sound but most often it was nothing more than a whisper or a crackle. This was so far beyond anything he'd experienced before.

His father fell to his knees. Amidst the rush, his head tilted back, his hair cascading down his back and nearly brushing his heels. Outside of his own control, his arms parted and his palms turned to face the ceiling. The power was congealing around him, whirling and funneling.

Then, quite suddenly, it was silent. Confused, Draco lurched toward the faint glow that surrounded his father.

His eyes widened when he got there. Lucius was in some sort of trance, his eyes rolled back and his body frozen in that crucified pose. Draco could hardly believe what he was seeing. The spell had told of a sharp sword carrying their family's will, a sword that metaphorically issued from his father's mouth. He shook his head in wonder. It wasn't as metaphorical as it seemed.

His father's lips were parted, and between them rested the ornate hilt of a sword. He resembled a sword-swallower at the end of his dangerous trick. Only this time, the sword was made of pure magic, constructed of the accrued majesty of his family over centuries. Somehow Draco knew that.

A pull in some unidentified place within him told him to take the sword. Draco couldn't fight it. He reached out for the glimmering thing, the silver hilt encrusted with impossibly green emeralds.

Pure electricity danced along his skin when he touched it. Slowly, he drew the sword, with care because he didn't want to hurt his father. He knew it wasn't actual metal and that if it was coming from his body, it could do him no harm, but the ingrained concern was hard to ignore.

He was dizzy with power once it was in his hand. He had read about heroes and villains who were equally enthralled with their weapons of choice; for a long time he'd thought them silly, for it was just a piece of metal. Now he knew how wrong he was. The sword felt like air; it had no weight, but everywhere it contacted his skin the tingle of magic was evident. The blade shone with prism-like colors, opalescent and ever-changing in its own light. Draco had handled a sword before, but never had he experienced the feeling of it being just right for his hand, as if it had belonged to him forever…

He swung it once and it cut away at the darkness around them like it was nothing more than a thin black curtain. He glanced at his father; he wanted him to see it, to see what their magic had created. Lucius didn't move. He remained in that trance, awaiting the spell's crescendo.

Draco could wait no longer. The maleficence that was Voldemort had been here far too long. He deserved neither explanation nor hesitation. He deserved death – crushing, whole, and final.

Draco reached for his wand with his free hand to cast a levitating charm on himself. However, he didn't even need it; the sword responded, lifting him off the floor easily. In seconds he was on level with the infected mirror.

Just this once, he would allow himself to feel a deep and vindictive satisfaction at the fear in the specter's eyes.

"What do you think you're doing, boy?" it demanded sharply.

"Enjoy Hell," was his only response. Then he swung the sword as hard as he could.

* * *

Her sense of panic grew as she ran through the Manor's corridors. She couldn't find the men of the house anywhere. Frustrated, she stopped short and called for a House Elf.

Narcissa didn't even register which one it was when the small creature blinked into existence before her. She grabbed its slim shoulders and nearly shouted, "Where are they? Where are Master Lucius and Master Draco?"

"I-in the old dining room, M-mistress!" it squeaked, terrified.

She couldn't believe her ears. The old dining room? Why? Why would they ever go in there? It was haunted, forever gripped by the spirit of evil and death. Merlin only knew what Voldemort had left in there!

Damn it, she left for a few hours and it was as if sense abandoned her men! With a frustrated cry, she rose to her feet and sprinted toward that cursed room.

* * *

The sword had rent a great crack in the glass. It split the Dark Lord's face into fragments – seven of them. Instead of that expression of fear Draco had hoped to see, the demon was laughing. Draco tugged at the sword, ready to deliver another blow, but it seemed fused with the glass.

Voldemort's laughter echoed all around him, assaulting his senses. The sword began to burn in his hands. And to Draco's very great horror, he found that his hands were stuck to it, just as the blade was stuck within the mirror.

* * *

The scene that met her was surreal. Lucius was on his knees, frozen in some sort of stasis. Nothing she did would wake him. Draco stood on air on the other side of the room. He had a sword in his hand that was halfway buried in a great decorative mirror. The glass wound was dripping black blood, but its demonic occupant was laughing.

She could make no sense of it until she saw the piece of parchment on the floor in front of Lucius. Narcissa plucked it up and scanned it quickly. An exorcism spell. They were insane! Her ex-husband and son were trying to exorcise the darkness from this room _by themselves_.

Typical men. Didn't they know that the magic of exorcism was made infinitely stronger by the presence of a woman, especially one of the same blood? It was ancient, protective magic – and most ancient, protective magic was inherently feminine in nature. Hadn't Lily Potter taught them that? Obviously not.

Well. She hadn't the time or the immediate knowledge to construct a fancy Latin narrative as they had. No matter; English would work just fine.

* * *

He was just beginning to panic when another voice punched through the shroud of Voldemort's laughter.

"RELASHIO!"

A jet of fiery red-orange light slammed into the sword. With a shrieking, grating sound that made his ears feel like they were going to bleed, the sword at last pulled free of the mirror. Draco stumbled backwards, still managing to inexplicably walk on air.

"Mum?" he panted. "What are you doing here?"

"Questions later!" she snapped, her face full of thunderclouds. "Let's finish this."

Draco smiled with relief. His mother's bearing was mildly terrifying, but somehow he knew her presence was the last ingredient.

"Yes, let's," he grinned.

She pointed her wand. "In the name of the noble House of Black and its union with the great House of Malfoy, by the blood of our Heir, BEGONE!"

Draco flinched at her voice. She sounded like Aunt Bellatrix when she shouted like that. His mother kept her temper in check and rarely had he seen her truly angry, but it was safe to say that right now, she was pouring every ounce of ire she had into the banishment.

Her blue eyes flickered to him. Draco nodded. He was ready. He didn't know exactly what form the death blow would take, but he was ready to convey it.

Narcissa lifted her wand above her head. She had never used the Killing Curse before, but her entire body bunched with the mad desire to cast it. She knew that with such things you had to mean it. Merlin help her, she meant it.

She wanted Voldemort out of her home, out of her life, out of her memories, but she could never be so lucky with that last one. That was all right. She'd settle for watching the last little bit of him die.

Throwing her arm back, she gave in to the emotion. She gave into the fey wildness that she concealed so well.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The burst of sickly green light went not for the mirror, but for the sword. Draco hoped to all the powers that existed that the curse couldn't travel through the sword and into him. With a burst of air, the blade exploded into green flames.

Now there was an expression of fear upon the Dark Lord's face. Draco's body quivered with some maddening pleasure-pain; his mind was overwhelmed with it. Biting down on the irrational urge to laugh, he addressed the mirror portrait again.

"It's time for you to go."

"No!" it snarled. It burst into motion, slamming up against the glass as if it were behind a window and could not get out. "You will never vanquish me! You will never destroy me! I AM LORD VOLDEMORT! Put down your toothpick, you worthless little whelp, you slime of wizardkind, you--"

Draco had had quite enough. With a delirious, hateful little smile, he thrust the sword directly into the phantasm's head – and this time, it went through.

* * *

She thought for a moment that the house was going to come down around them. The roar was so great! She could feel the very foundations rumbling. It was then that she realized that they were shifting not in protest, but in unified force with their magic. The Manor was ready to spit Tom Riddle out.

The glass shattered with an explosive force. The shockwave knocked her backwards quite soundly; she was stunned. Her only thought after that was of Lucius and Draco. She prayed that they wouldn't be hurt…that when the light faded, they would all wake and feel a thousand pounds lighter.

* * *

He felt like death warmed over.

His senses returned slowly. He was halfway under a table so all he saw was the patterned, unfinished wood of its underside. Lucius struggled to remember where he was and why.

The dining room. Exorcism. Hallucinations, spells, pain…

He sat up too fast, only narrowly avoiding cracking his skull. Draco. Where was Draco?

First he saw Narcissa, and his brain balked at that information. Maybe he was still hallucinating. She had not been there. Why was she here now? She lay unconscious on her back, her thick blonde lashes wet with tears. To his very great relief she seemed to be all right.

He used one of the chairs to pull himself to his feet. There wasn't any energy in his body; his muscles didn't want to support him. He didn't give a damn what they wanted. He needed to find Draco and make sure he was safe.

When he found his son he received quite the shock. Draco was lying across the table on his back. The table all around him was splattered in some black, sticky substance, but Draco himself was entirely clean. Quickly, Lucius pulled him down; he looked too much like some kind of sacrifice.

Draco, too, was unconscious. Like his mother, he seemed mostly unharmed. Lucius could see bruises blooming along his neck and one of his hands was very swollen, but his chest continued to rise and fall and there was no blood. He allowed himself a moment of weakness as he clutched his son's body to his in a self-indulgent embrace.

Lucius was aware of the ghosts all around him. He knew he should thank the Muggle Studies teacher, the one that had helped him see through the hallucinations. He simply wasn't capable. He was so tired that his mind could process only one thing, and that was the relief that they had succeeded and were all alive.

Nine ghosts filtered away, at last carried to their great beyond. Charity Burbage was the final one to depart. For a brief second she was irritated at Malfoy's lack of acknowledgement, but then…she saw his gratitude in the way he cradled his son. Besides, she ought to be thanking him. If he had not gotten it into his crazy mind to vanquish the Dark Lord, she and the other ghosts would have been trapped in here forever.

Smiling serenely, she moved on, ascending into a very bright light.

* * *

Hermione received a letter as she was cleaning her teeth. She recognized the bird as a Malfoy owl and took the letter from it with some apprehension. What would Lucius be sending her this late? It was past midnight. Tiresias had at last gone back to Vancouver and she was about to slip into bed.

Lucius's handwriting was messy and uneven, rising and dipping in crooked lines.

_Overdid it tonight. Very tired. Will explain later. May not make it back to villa tomorrow but you should go before me if you want. Love you._

_L._

That was twice now. She had thought that Tiresias had added Lucius's expression of love in his earlier report. Here she had evidence for herself. In the scheme of admissions of love, he was progressing rapidly. He had spoken it to another. Now he had put it in writing. Inevitably, the next step was to say it directly to her.

Her heart nearly liquefied. God, she loved him. It had only been four days but their separation felt like centuries. Hermione blinked away happy tears, determined to go back to the villa tomorrow and set everything right before his return.

*~*~*~*~*

End note: Next chapter we return to our regularly scheduled plotline. You can expect Lucius and Hermione's reunion as well as Harry's thoughts and reactions to the knowledge he now has…


	27. Chapter 27

Harry didn't sleep. He laid there listening to Ginny's soft and even breathing. He imagined that in the deep quiet of the night he could actually feel the gentle thud of her pulse rippling through the mattress. Having her there was a comfort even if he could never, ever voice his thoughts to her.

He felt suffocated. He was used to having two best friends and a girlfriend to speak with when situations like this came about; now all three of them were out of the question. Anything involving a Malfoy was unsafe grounds with a Weasley, Ginny and Ron especially. And for once, Hermione was the source of the problem, not the voice of reason…

Harry thought. He thought about everything that had happened in the last few months…and everything that had not happened. There were a lot of possibilities and if the war had taught him anything, it was not to jump to conclusions.

For all he knew, Marietta Edgecombe could have told him a vicious lie for her own personal gain. If she worked down in forensics it wouldn't be a great challenge for her to fabricate a very convincing document that backed up her claim. But this was a girl who had ratted out an entire group of students to save her mother's reputation – it seemed out of character for her to craft an elaborate ruse that could potentially endanger her own, especially when she had a successful job. She wouldn't take the risk without very solid proof.

So perhaps she wasn't lying. That would, inexplicably, place Hermione, or at the very least her knickers, at Lucius Malfoy's vacation home. Hermione had never denied that she was in Italy. The question really became whether she was there because of him, or if she had had the misfortune of bumping into him…

He swallowed. If that black-hearted bastard had done anything to her…Harry squeezed his eyes closed. It was not so far outside the realm of possibility that she had crossed his path on a random Italian road and Malfoy had decided to take some kind of liberty. Perhaps he had drugged her with a potion or Obliviated her. Perhaps she didn't even know…

He felt a little sick with the knowledge that he would _almost_ prefer the idea that she had been taken advantage of to the possibility that she was leaving knickers in his bed willingly. Almost. He wasn't that far gone with dislike for the elder Malfoy. He didn't want her to be involved with him, but if she was, he very much wished that it wasn't against her will.

But _how?_ How could Hermione stand him? How could Malfoy stand Hermione? They were polar opposites. They just weren't supposed to exist as anything more than distant, frosty adversaries…veteran combatants in a war gone cold.

One thing was for sure: Harry didn't think that Malfoy had a snowball's chance in hell of being able to make Hermione as happy as he'd seen her. Yet all signs pointed that way. The extended stay in Italy, her evasiveness when questioned about the man in her life, and now, her knickers…

Oh, Merlin. What had his best friend gotten herself into? Feeling confused to the point of exhaustion, he turned against Ginny's side and dropped into a troubled sleep.

* * *

When he returned to an empty house, his heart jumped into his throat. For one horrible moment he thought that Hermione wasn't coming back. Then Jo-Jo all but exploded out of the dining room to pounce on him.

He had never embraced a House Elf before; it wasn't really so bad. Listening to her shrieks of excitement and half-blubbered sobs was another story. Lucius attempted to extract himself from Jo-Jo to start clearing up the mess that was his villa post-Auror raid. However, the elf wouldn't have it and banished him quite threateningly.

The bedroom had not been turned upside down like the other rooms. Either that, or Jo-Jo had already cleaned it. The bed was freshly made up and very inviting…

He sank into it, wondering where Hermione was. Perhaps her studious nature had gotten the best of her and driven her to go to class. That made sense; it was mid-afternoon. She would be home in a few hours if that was the case.

He couldn't believe how tired his body still was. He'd slept nearly twelve hours straight and felt like he could sleep twelve more. It was the best sleep he had gotten in that Manor in a very long time, though…the house was no longer tainted by the ghosts of his own mistakes.

Lucius smiled. The momentousness (and stupidity) of what they had done was finally beginning to hit him. The things he had seen in that dining room should have discomposed him in hindsight, but he just couldn't feel terror at something that could never happen. All he felt was an odd sort of elation.

Tired elation…With a jaw-cracking yawn, he adjusted his pillow and promptly fell asleep, a tiny trace of a smile still on his lips.

* * *

The gentle tickle of fingers against his cheek woke him. He knew Hermione's touch instinctively; it sent little ripples of electricity pulsing across his skin, making his breath catch. He had to fight a surge of some unidentified emotion before opening his eyes. The anticipation of seeing her, having the beauty of her face filling his mind again, was stronger than he ever imagined it could be.

When he did at last raise his lashes, a visceral sense of relief flooded him. Her face was bathed in soft candlelight. Night had fallen and now the villa was back to its usual status of sanctuary - _their_ sanctuary.

"It's late," he said softly.

"I know. I stayed at the library after class to study all the things I missed."

He smiled. "I thought you might."

Hermione leaned down to stroke his hair. "You'll never sleep tonight." He rarely did after a long nap.

He reached up to return the favor, twining a warm brown curl about his finger. "I hadn't planned on it anyhow."

"Oh?" she said with a slight raise of her brow.

"Did you?"

He loved the way the slow, subtle grin moved her lips. "No," she admitted. She leaned down, resting her forearms across his chest, and gave him a gentle kiss. He shifted sideways and wrapped his arms around her. He could tell that she had only meant it to be a quick kiss, but he wasn't having that. He needed to make sure she was real and things were still the same even though their circumstances had shifted.

Hermione met him gamely, relaxing against his chest and coyly parting her lips. Kissing her never became less exciting; she had a way of making it feel like the first time every time. There was always a slight hesitation in her, a need to be pushed into losing her control. A part of him had always known that they were more alike than they cared to admit…

He kissed her with abandon, suffused with the knowledge that he didn't need to be in control with her. That was a rare gift. With nearly every other lover in his life he had felt the suffocating need to be the one in power, and it invariably kept him from making any kind of real connection with them for fear of losing that control. He thought he had connected with Narcissa, but now he knew how woefully wrong he was.

The small vulnerability of wanting Hermione, of needing her, no longer had the ability to make him feel out of sorts. It kept him grounded. He would be lying if he tried to say that he didn't intensely fear an end of their sudden happiness, yet he had made up his mind months ago that fear would no longer guide his behavior.

Slowly, their lips drifted apart from a long, sensuous kiss. Hermione stared down at him with wide pupils and beautiful pink lips.

"I confess," he said softly, "when I first returned and you weren't here, I thought maybe you had come to your senses."

She tilted her head and offered a wry smile. "I have none when it comes to you."

"Nor I you." He cupped her cheek with his palm, feeling the delicate bones that shaped her face. "I'm sorry for the scare and for causing you to miss class. I know you hate that."

"Don't be sorry. I'm just glad everything is all right now."

He contained the slight frown that wanted to flash across his face. Everything was not all right; whoever had killed his publisher and friend was still at large and the actions of the Ministry had effectively penciled him in next on the list. Tomorrow, they would have to put up wards and he would begin his own subtle probe into what had happened. But for now…he was reunited with the woman he loved. The woman who loved him. It wasn't the time for solving mysteries.

Carefully, he pulled her onto the bed, rolling and turning so that she was beneath him. He loved how he could affect her so; already her cheeks were flushed and her breath quickened in anticipation. Knowing how much she wanted him always made him equally hot and bothered. He nestled into the contours of her body and reveled in it.

He burrowed his nose into his favorite place – just beneath her ear. She smelled so good, no matter whether she was sweating from a workout, waking up beside him, or fresh out of the bath. He marveled that no one else had ever noticed its addicting nature…but perhaps no one else was meant to.

Lucius dragged his fingers lightly along her collarbone, smiling at the slight trail of goosepimples that followed his touch. Touch was such a simple thing, but until he had gone nearly three years without any true intimacy, he had never appreciated it. He had never taken a moment to be grateful for the brilliant sensations the human body was capable of feeling. Hermione's textbooks told him that there were many different kinds of touch receptors embedded within his skin; they had all been so starved until she came along.

There had been nights when she would just touch and kiss and caress each pale acre of his skin. Those nights destroyed him. She had found so many little erogenous zones, places that made him squirm and pant. In that way she was so like him, determined to be the best at whatever she was doing, whether it be dueling, academics, or sex. It went without saying that she was the best he'd ever had. She was the only lover that he'd given everything to and it seemed like that made all the difference.

He had never known that life could be like this. And how could he? His parents had been so estranged from one another, hardly an example of the strength of a loving couple. His marriage to Narcissa had been closer, but still quite tame and business-like. In the pureblood world real affection was kept behind closed doors if it existed at all. To love with the kind of abandon he'd experienced with Hermione was considered plebian in those circles.

He lowered his lips to the base of her throat. He really did need to tell her how he felt. She knew, of course, but it was such a wonderful little pleasure to be told out loud. He hadn't been able to enjoy the moment when she said she loved him, but even so, it had lifted his heart in a dark hour. If not for that anchor, he might have lost his mind at the thought of being tossed back in Azkaban.

Lucius looked down at her. Soon he would do it. Soon he would confess his love. But now was the time to show her, not tell her…

* * *

She woke from the dead sleep of a woman who had been shagged within an inch of her life. Incredibly, Lucius was up and about. Hermione smiled sleepily to herself; his bare arse was a most agreeable sight first thing in the morning.

Until he turned and she saw the violently colored bruise that marred his right flank. Her eyes widened.

"Lucius!" she gasped. "Did they do that to you when they arrested you?"

He glanced over his shoulder at her, evidently surprised that she was awake. Then he twisted slightly to eye the bruising.

"No," he replied, and then returned to nonchalantly sorting through his clothes.

She gaped at his back for a moment. His audacity was truly amazing at times. Hermione sat up and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Then how _did _you get that?" she demanded.

He sighed and then abandoned the closet. With the air of a man who knew he was about to be yelled at, he settled on the bed next to her. "It has to do with my activities before returning to the villa." His hand sought hers. "You are no doubt aware that my ancestral home was tainted by _his_ stay."

Hermione didn't have to ask who _he_ was. With a convulsive squeeze of his fingers, she nodded.

"He left many relics behind. One of those was our original dining room. It was where…meetings were held. I won't elaborate beyond that. Suffice to say, the room was haunted. Draco and I decided to do our best to start removing some of the darkness left behind, beginning with that room."

She swallowed and nodded again. How fearsome it must have been, confronting those ghosts…Having grown up in the magical world, the thought of a ghost no longer frightened her. However, the only ghosts she had known were benign, if mischievous, aloof or occasionally grumpy creatures. There were specters that could be downright dangerous and they were usually the ones who wanted revenge. She couldn't say that she would be a terribly forgiving ghost if she was ruthlessly murdered.

"What we didn't know," Lucius went on quietly, "was that the room was also cursed. The Dark Lord left a remnant behind to ensure that we would die even if he didn't make it through the war. The ghosts were the least of our worries."

"What happened?" she asked, her spine straightening as her body went tense. It was on the tip of her tongue to chastise him for entering into that situation so recklessly, but she bit down on the urge. The fact was that Hermione couldn't claim that she would have been more cautious in the same situation. She was very much a Gryffindor at times.

"It is best forgotten," he responded in a tone that said he would not be persuaded to speak of it. "The important thing is that we accomplished our goal."

"You vanquished him and released the spirits?"

Lucius nodded.

"That still doesn't explain your bruise…"

"As near as I can understand, part of the spell was to…reclaim me, in a sense. To remind me that I was his. The curse must have detected the runes you placed upon me."

"It removed them?" she whispered.

"Yes."

"That must be why I didn't feel anything. I was wondering why I wouldn't have detected any hint of emotion from you when you were fighting the curse." She closed her eyes for a moment. "I'm sorry you had to go through that alone."

"I wasn't alone," he replied, reaching out to brush his fingers along her cheekbone. "Draco was with me. And truthfully, I am glad you didn't feel anything. It was a disturbing evening."

"But everything's all right?"

"Everything is fine," he murmured. "Better than it has been in a very long time."

Hermione smiled, nearly breathless at the emotion she saw in his eyes. He was _happy._ She had longed to see him so.

His hand trailed lightly down her face, to her chin and down her neck to dance along her collarbone. The usual tickle of warmth that followed his touch lit across her skin. Then he went lower still and his fingers traced the runes he had written upon her.

His lips moved. A cold sensation hit her, centered over those runic characters. Hermione held her breath. She wasn't sure what he was doing, but she trusted him.

A moment later he lifted his hand. Hermione glanced down at the top of her right breast; the skin there was smooth and untarnished. The runes were gone.

She looked up at him, eyes questioning. Lucius leaned close, his lips just inches from hers, and said, "No more marks."

Tears welled up in her eyes. Hermione had no idea why. Perhaps the stress of everything had at last gotten to her, perhaps she was sad to lose the last bit of connection to his psyche, or perhaps she was boundlessly happy that he did not need to own or be owned. She didn't know, but Lucius didn't seem to need an explanation as he gathered her into his arms.

* * *

Tiresias Smythe was ever so glad to be back where he belonged. Hermione had certainly been a gracious hostess, but home was home. He missed it and all its trappings, even if those trappings were just a slobbery Labrador Retriever and a mountain of medical files that threatened to crush him if they ever gave way.

He stared at those files, arms crossed. With a sigh he realized how much of his practice had been pushed aside to deal with Lucius. He didn't regret it, not for a moment; he wasn't suffering financially from the arrangement and he genuinely liked his primary patient in spite of his spotty past. It was just that life was becoming more complicated working with a man who was encircled with both fame and infamy.

That was driven home to him an hour later as he left for his private practice. It was close enough to walk and he preferred to; the cool air was invigorating. No one had ever bothered him on the short 15 minute jaunt to his office, save the occasional panhandler.

It was certainly not a panhandler that suddenly appeared in front of him and began snapping pictures. He started at the bright flash. Then his mind caught up.

He had seen the countless articles splashed throughout the English papers when Lucius revealed his 'curse'. Lucius and Hermione had not been kidding when they explained how the media would treat the situation. He thought the public's fascination, be it sympathetic or condemnatory, bordered on ridiculous. He saw very clearly why they had to keep their relationship a secret. The media would destroy them.

"Healer Smythe, are you aware that your patient, Lucius Malfoy, is a convicted Death Eater? Are you aware that he assisted in the torture of Muggles and supported the Dark Lord Voldemort in Europe's recent war?" the unknown reporter flung at him.

Tiresias ignored the man. He pulled the collar of his jacket up, along with his scarf, and walked on. The reporter followed him the entire way, barraging him with increasingly inflammatory questions. Tiresias bit his tongue. There were many things he could have said, but it just wasn't worth it.

He slammed the door in the reporter's face. His secretary looked up at him curiously, unused to the dark scowl that was currently gracing his visage. Tiresias took a deep breath to calm himself. Then he said, "Call the Aurors. I want them stationed at the door to prevent those media leeches from entering the practice or harassing the patients."

She nodded and Tiresias stalked off to his office. He stripped off his jacket, scarf, and gloves and then leaned heavily on the desk. Notoriety had never been his goal when he agreed to treat Lucius. The world was never supposed to know, unless he somehow managed to cure the blond wizard. They had agreed on that. Lucius would not deny him the prestige of curing a heretofore uncurable disease.

But he had not cured anything. He felt his jaw clench briefly. Right now, he was the healer who had found a way to keep a strongly disliked man with a questionable past alive. People would hate him by association. He suspected that the obnoxious reporter was only the beginning.

He sat and rested his forehead on yet another stack of folders. Tiresias wished it wouldn't be highly inappropriate to knock back a drink. He stayed there, fervently wishing for a gin and tonic that was mostly gin, until his secretary knocked timidly and informed him that his first patient was waiting.

* * *

Being back at training camp was grueling but not unwelcome for Harry. It kept his mind occupied, away from where it inevitably wanted to return. It kept him from thinking about Hermione and the possibility that she was involved with Lucius Malfoy.

It continued to kill him that he couldn't talk to anyone about it. Every time he looked at Ron he wanted to, because he was so used to being able to talk to his best friends…but this was too different. Ron could never know about this. It had taken him a long time to find his own confidence; knowing that Hermione might have replaced him with a Malfoy would tear that all down. Harry would not be the harbinger of that.

But the day was over now, and four long hours of downtime stretched before him. Dinner would take up one of those hours. That left three in which he had to continuously restrain himself, 180 minutes of mind-racing torture.

He made it through dinner without a problem. Ron appeared to have eaten too much and was semi-conscious trying to digest it all for the half-hour after that. Once he felt better, Harry asked him if he wanted to play chess. That would keep them busy for some time and he'd have to focus on the game lest he be completely crushed. He almost always lost to Ron anyway, but there was losing and then there was embarrassing himself.

Ron agreed. Harry set up the board as Ron went to change out of his robes. He thought all would be smooth sailing until Ron's exclamation drifted across the room.

"What the hell?!"

He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment. Harry knew that tone of voice.

"What is it?" he asked wearily.

Ron strode over with the paper in his hands, a strange sight to be sure. "Mum sent it, there's an article on W3 in the business section, but look at that!" he said quickly, pointing at the picture of a man that Harry had never seen before.

"Okay. Who is he?"

"_THAT_ is the man that was at Hermione's flat. The one that made her cry!"

Harry frowned. "Ron, we've been over that."

"Whatever!" the redhead said dismissively. "Look, Harry. It says he's Malfoy's healer! Why in the hell would Hermione be hanging around with someone like that?"

Why, indeed. Harry felt his stomach sink.

"She's in school to be a healer," he heard himself say. He was on autopilot now, knowing that he had to obscure what was looking more and more like the truth. "She probably knows him through that."

Ron scowled, but accepted that explanation. In his mind there would be no other reason for Hermione to be so closely involved with a Malfoy. It had been that way in Harry's mind, too, until Marietta Edgecombe burst in and destroyed the status quo.

He didn't sleep that night even though his body was half-dead with exhaustion. He couldn't. He had to know whether it was true. Harry swallowed. He was going to have to go to Italy…back to that villa…and either he would see nothing, or he would see something that shook the foundations of a lifelong friendship – because, to him, his life had truly begun at eleven, and Ron and Hermione were the first true friends he ever had.

* * *

The next day was Sunday and it was the one day of rest afforded to Auror trainees. Normally he would have gone to see Ginny, but she was visiting Bill and Fleur. Harry had no excuse not to do what had kept him awake all night.

Fortunately Ron was too occupied with flirting with a new recruit to notice Harry's departure. He felt sick as he prepared himself to Apparate. He was well and truly torn. Harry didn't want to know if what Edgecombe said was true, but at the same time he needed to know. He just needed the truth.

It was easy to find his way toward the outskirts of the small Italian town. The beauty of the countryside was imprinted in his mind. When he had first seen it, undercover in the scratchy uniform of a carabinieri, he had thought to himself that he really needed to travel more.

Late autumn was taking its toll now. The grasses were browning and the trees had become sparse. The sunflowers, while still in bloom, were also becoming brittle and straw-like. The scene was lent some color by the field of pumpkins and squash that bordered it. Somehow it was still beautiful even though he knew this place concealed a multitude of secrets.

Harry walked up the long dirt road, the Invisibility Cloak dragging in the dust behind him. He felt unaccountably dejected. He hated that he even had to spy on his friend like this. Her life should have been her business. But Malfoy…he just couldn't be trusted.

He was about two hundred feet from the villa when he felt the hum of wards. Harry didn't dare trigger them. Malfoy would be cautious or even paranoid after recent events and Harry knew that he did not want to be on the receiving end of any security system the man had set up.

The only choice was to wait. If he saw Hermione at any time, he would have his answer. Sighing, Harry wandered back down the road and found a rock to sit on without any knowledge that an eight-year-old Lucius had once sat upon the very same one, staring longingly down the path at the friends he could no longer associate with.

* * *

"You really didn't read it?" Lucius asked incredulously.

"No. You can ask Jo-Jo, I didn't touch it," Hermione replied.

"I believe you. I just didn't expect you to have such self-control."

"Because you know so much about that," she taunted good-naturedly.

"Indeed, I am a master." Lucius turned and flashed a grin. He was pulling his trousers back on for the third time that day. Self-control had not been on the menu from the moment they woke up.

"You're a master of _something_," she mumbled, unable to contain her own pleased smile.

He said nothing as he finished dressing. Hermione eventually managed to quash the erotic memories that were tinting her cheeks pink. It was pointless; the flush returned when Lucius approached to help her tie the halter straps of her dress. The brush of his fingers was enough to raise goosebumps on her skin. The small kiss he pressed to her shoulder tightened her nipples against the bodice. It was not lost on him; he merely offered her an unrepentant smile as he began to tug her out the door.

Hermione felt a lovely swell of affection rise in her chest. He had missed his Italian friends, as well, even if he didn't say so; he wasn't bothering to conceal his eagerness to see Paolo and Elisabetta. Or maybe that wasn't it at all; perhaps he had just missed the simplicity of life in the villa. Hermione knew she had.

As they began the journey down to the village, Hermione slid her hand into his. Normally he would have tolerated it for a minute or two and then reclaimed his hand. Today, he let her fingers rest within his, and they walked on in contented silence.

* * *

Harry sat numbly, watching them go by. He had hoped, at first, that the beautiful woman who emerged from the villa with Malfoy was _not_ Hermione. Hermione didn't dress like that, nor did she carry herself that way. But it became increasingly clear as they strode down the path that it _was_ Hermione, a Hermione he had never known.

It hurt. It hurt because she was so gorgeous, so confident, and so happy at his side. Harry had never seen her look that way. Why, why, why did it have to be Lucius Malfoy that brought it out? Why? And how?

He tried not to pay attention to Malfoy, but he couldn't ignore the blatant contentment that rested upon the man's features. His eyes were warm, engaged in some distant thought, and his lips relaxed from their perpetual sneer. His large hand encased Hermione's. As Harry watched, his thumb rubbed absently along hers.

The urge to vomit was overwhelming, but Harry was far too practiced at squelching it. Reeling, he stood up from his rocky seat and began to quietly follow them. He didn't know what he hoped to accomplish. At that moment, he didn't know much at all.

He followed them in dumb shock as they descended into the village and down the Briatore road. Harry's shock deepened when they stepped inside a fence, a fence that surrounded a house he had visited not even a week before. A house where a suspicious Italian couple had told him that no, they did not know a man named Lucius Malfoy, did not recognize the man in the photograph, and was that all?

Harry stopped outside the fence. He couldn't believe it. They were visiting _Muggles_. _Muggles_ had covered up for Malfoy. What in the hell? What…

He fought an urge much worse than vomiting. He struggled not to cry as Hermione and Malfoy exchanged double kisses with both host and hostess and were invited in with warm and effusive greetings. Harry stood outside the fence, lost and whirling in a tornado of questions.

* * *

They were drunk on good food, good wine, and good company as usual. It felt so decadent in spite of its minimalism. It was just the four of them tonight and they lounged in the living room, a couple to each couch. There was precious little speech as music drifted through the room and the fire crackled in the hearth.

They had talked themselves out. Elisabetta was dozing in Paolo's lap and Hermione was curled up to Lucius's side with an entirely unnecessary glass of wine in her hand. She knew from Lucius's expression that he was very full and would likely fall asleep as soon as they garnered the energy to return home.

"It is good to have you back, Luciano," Paolo said around a yawn. He spoke everyone's thoughts.

"It is good to be back," Lucius agreed.

At that moment, a knock sounded at the door. Elisabetta startled awake, sitting up and blinking.

"Who could that be?" Paolo grumbled. His wife began to rise, but he subdued her and meandered away to get the door himself. Elisabetta stretched and smiled sheepishly at her guests.

* * *

The man didn't recognize him. Harry supposed he was a little unkempt and not wearing the Carabinieri uniform. Nevermind that he had only spoken to them for five minutes; what reason would they have to memorize his face? This man, this perjuring Muggle, had no idea of the trouble he could be in.

"May I help you?" he said expectantly.

"Yes," Harry said as firmly as he could manage. "I would like to speak with Hermione Granger."

The man blinked. Then he frowned. His eyes instantly took on a suspicious cast, real rather than conjured, and he took a step back.

"Just a moment."

He shut the door, and Harry waited.

* * *

"Who was it?" Elisabetta asked offhand as her husband returned. Paolo sat on the couch without answering. His unusual somberness alerted everyone that something was not right.

He swallowed. "Hermione, there is a man outside who wants to see you."

Lucius sat up very straight. Hermione nearly dropped her wine glass. Lucius steadied it and then removed it from her suddenly tremulous fingers. He set it aside and cleared his throat.

"Who?"

"He didn't give his name."

"What did he look like?" Hermione asked in a tiny voice.

Paolo looked nervously at his hands. "Ah…well, he was of average height, with very untidy hair and glasses."

"Green eyes?" she whispered.

Paolo thought for a moment. "I…well, yes, I suppose." He shared a glance with Elisabetta and then set his jaw. "Is he your ex? I have my father's old shotgun in the cellar."

Hermione flinched. "No. No, that isn't necessary. He's…" she trailed off as she extracted herself from Lucius and stood. "Well, he _was_ my best friend." She smoothed her dress. "Not sure what he'll be after this."

An expression of apology passed over Lucius's face. "Do you want me to accompany you?" he asked quietly.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I think it's better if you don't."

He nodded. With a deep breath, Hermione straightened up and walked out of the room. The inevitable confrontation had come, and she wasn't going to back down.

* * *

As soon as she was out of sight, Lucius felt a powerful surge of irrational panic well up inside him. It clutched at his chest with an iron fist. He stood and excused himself, less alarmed by his inability to draw adequate breath than by the possibility that _this was it_. This was the part where she realized her insanity and left him.

* * *

Paolo didn't need his wife to tell him to follow his friend. The look on his face had been one of pure, unadulterated fear. He knew that Elisabetta would watch out for Hermione. His wife would not stand for this mystery man harming Hermione in any way. He wouldn't put it past her to go and get that shotgun herself.

He found the blond man leaning against the counter in the kitchen. Luciano was struggling to take deep breaths. Paolo took one look at him and headed for the liquor cabinet. He needed something stronger than wine.

Lucius took the glass of Merlin knew what from the other man. He wondered if _this_ was why his mother drank. If she had felt like this, trapped in an overwhelming anxiety all the time, then he could spare some small shred of understanding. But he would never know. She had taken the _why_ to the grave with her.

He tossed the drink down, hating that he had to emulate her just to function. The incredibly strong alcohol cleaved a path of clarity through his head. He had to draw in great lungfuls of air to prevent himself from immediately expelling the poison the same way it had come in. Somehow he managed not to vomit.

"Talk to me," Paolo ordered.

"She's going to leave me," he gasped, not quite recovered from the wicked shot.

"Don't be ridiculous. Hermione loves you."

"You don't understand."

"Then tell me."

Lucius shook his head. How could he explain it all to a Muggle?

* * *

Hermione's heart hammered in her chest as she opened the door. Harry had stepped away from it and stood with his hands in his pockets a little ways off. It was such a familiar posture. It made tears prickle in her eyes.

"Hi," she said softly as she stepped out onto the porch. She was keenly aware of Elisabetta standing a few feet from the door, eyes watchful and her arms crossed over her chest. It made her feel a little stronger.

"Hi," he murmured in response.

She stood there, waiting. Waiting for the tirade, the curses, the anger that was sure to issue from him. She knew better than anyone that Harry had a temper, one that took a lot to provoke. Once that line was crossed his rage could be boundless even though he kept most of it inside.

Minutes passed. Harry just looked at her. He, too, was waiting. For what, she didn't know. Did he expect some kind of apology? An admission of guilt? Hermione bit the inside of her lip. He wasn't going to get either. She was not sorry for falling in love with a brilliant man. The only thing she was sorry for was that others did not know of that brilliance.

"It's true, then," he said at last. "You're with Malfoy."

The way he said it, with so much defeat and disappointment, made her bristle with anger. "Yes, I am," she responded with a tone of defiance. Hermione braced herself. Surely this was where the verbal abuse would begin?

But Harry was not Ron. That aligned firmly in her mind when he remained silent. In some ways, his silence was worse than a loss of control.

"You lied to me."

Her lip quivered. "I know. I'm sorry. I didn't want to, but…if I hadn't…"

Silence once more. With each passing moment, Hermione felt ever closer to crying.

"He hasn't done anything to you, has he? You can tell me, Hermione."

"Of course he hasn't. Is it so hard for you to believe that I actually care for him?"

"He tried to kill you, Hermione. He thinks that you're inferior. Have you forgotten?"

"No. I will never forget. But he isn't that man anymore, Harry."

He shook his head. Then he paced a few steps. She could see in the set of his jaw that he was beginning to feel the sting of the situation.

"What about these people?" Harry gestured sharply toward the house. "He Imperiused them so they would lie about him during the investigation. Still think he's a changed man?" he spat.

"He didn't Imperius them. I asked them to lie."

Harry stopped short. "_You_? You asked them to lie…to save him?"

"There was nothing to save him from, Harry! He didn't do it. Is the evidence not enough for you?"

His nostrils flared and he took several forceful breaths before turning a piercing emerald gaze on her. "Oh, no. It's more than enough to tell me that you're not the person I used to call my best friend."

"Why?" she shot back. "Because I fell in love with someone you don't approve of?"

"No, because you _think_ you love some monster, some man who nearly murdered us all and who thinks you're less than dirt, and because you've _changed_ for him!"

"The only one who's changed is Lucius. He isn't the way you think." Tears spilled over at last, fat droplets that cascaded down her cheeks and dripped off into the dusty planks of the porch. "Harry, please, think about when you first learned of Sirius. You hated him because you didn't know the whole story. When you saw the truth, you forgave him!"

She knew almost immediately that she had made a bad move in comparing Lucius to Sirius. It was logical, but for Harry, the emotions overpowered rationality.

"Don't you _dare_!" he barked, raising his voice for the first time. "Is Malfoy innocent? Did he go to prison for a crime he didn't commit? Did he watch everyone he ever loved die or betray him? Don't you ever compare that scum to Sirius!"

"He is not scum!"

Harry's eyes were bright with angry tears. "Then maybe you are. Aren't people who lie to their friends, who stab them in the back, the real scum of the world?"

* * *

He could find no way to explain his anxiety to Paolo. Instead, he settled for a question that had nagged him more than once.

"Is it fair?" Lucius whispered. "Is it fair of me to cause her to lose everything?"

"Is it fair of her friends and family to judge you without even knowing you?" Paolo countered. "Luciano, in these situations…those who are true friends will find a way to understand."

"I don't deserve their understanding." He cast weary eyes at his friend. "I have done terrible things, Paolo. They judge me rightly."

"Do you think that boy has never done a terrible thing? Do you think _I_ have never done a terrible thing? We all do things that we aren't proud of. We have lapses or we encounter situations where we aren't prepared, we make the wrong choice. What matters is that we know our error. The difference between a bad man and a good one is just that."

Lucius was silent for a long moment.

"There is no reason for her to be with me."

"She loves you. That is the only reason she needs." Paolo looked up. "Isn't that the only reason _you _need?"

The blond man blinked. "Yes. Yes, it is."

* * *

"Stabbing _you_ in the back? That's rich, Harry. Aren't you the one stabbing me in the back by being angry with me for _living my life? _I don't exist to please you! I am _more_ than just some girl who reads a lot and saves your arse all the time! Not that you would ever notice!"

"Yes, I'm sorry I never noticed the side of you that fucks Death Eaters! Does he call you mudblood in bed?"

Her mouth fell open. That word had never spilled from Harry's lips, not once. It was all she could take. Hermione crossed the distance between them and slapped him as hard as she could.

* * *

"I think you should go out there. Both of you."

Lucius and Paolo glanced up at Elisabetta.

"They are starting to yell," she added.

Resolutely, Lucius nodded. He wished he could give his wand to one of them so that he would not be tempted to use it, but it just wasn't plausible. He would have to trust his instincts. He turned and headed for the kitchen door.

Paolo was right behind him. A hundred thoughts churned in Lucius's head, jumbled into a mess of unsorted emotions. One thing was for certain. He would not stand for Hermione being hurt by Potter.

* * *

The sting of her palm danced wildly over the left side of his face, throbbing in brilliant waves. Harry knew he had gone too far. The look on Hermione's face told him that she knew she had, as well.

* * *

Lucius stepped out onto the porch. It was not a shouting match that met him. It was the coldest, most wounded stalemate he had ever seen. Both parties had tear tracks on their faces.

Harry Potter's eyes flickered up to him. He expected them to be full of some dark warning, some violent portent should he ever hurt Hermione. But there was nothing. They were empty. Just…void.

Harry touched his cheek, and then he said, "Goodbye, Hermione."


	28. Chapter 28

There was a profound silence as The Boy Who Conquered walked down the path, through the gate, and away onto the road. Lucius prayed that he would not spitefully choose to Apparate in front of people he knew were Muggles. His fingers tightened around his wand; he was ready to do what was necessary to obscure any such display of magic.

It seemed that Potter was smarter than that. He disappeared only into darkness and that wasn't unusual out here, considering the lack of streetlamps. Where he went, Lucius didn't care. His eyes drifted to Hermione.

She stood at the bottom of the porch steps. Both of her hands were balled into fists at her sides. Her face was turned away and a gentle breeze stirred her hair.

His only instinct was to go to her, to enfold her in his arms and comfort her as best he could. She had done it for him, unconditionally, and he could never thank her enough, never. Until she came along, he had not known true compassion…or true love.

She nearly collapsed into his arms, burying her face in his chest. She seemed so small in that moment. He hated it. Just like that, his fuse was lit.

He had reason to hate Harry Potter. The boy had sent him to prison, to hell, and however much of that was his own fault, the association was forever embedded in his mind. All that paled in comparison to his fury over the stupid boy hurting Hermione.

But there was nothing to be done. Nothing save to provide his witch with the comfort she needed, whatever form it might take. With a slight crouch, he bent and scooped her up into his arms. He was about to begin the walk up to the villa when Elisabetta's hand dropped onto his shoulder.

"You will stay here tonight."

And, as it was not so much a suggestion as an order, Lucius turned and walked back into the small house on Briatore Road, into the warmth of the only true friends he had ever known.

* * *

Her grief was swift and all-encompassing. Lucius lay with her in the guest room bed, holding her, stroking her curls, wishing that he could do more. It was so terrible to see her like this.

He had never had a best friend. Severus was a close friend, yes, but Slytherins struggled with trust as a rule and they had never quite gotten past their mutual (if well-disguised) suspicion of one another. Sadly, Paolo was the nearest approximation of a best friend that he could boast. While he would have been hurt if Paolo somehow betrayed or rejected him, he didn't think it could compare with the blow Potter had delivered to Hermione. He just couldn't fully understand what she was feeling.

Her body shook with quiet sobs. Lucius's arms tightened around her. He still had no idea of what Potter had said, but evidently it was bad enough. Merlin, he could kill the boy.

Her tears did not slow. He began to ache – for her, with her, and over the fact that he played a part in this. Had he not been such a terrible person once, it wouldn't matter that she was with him. No one would care. No one would hate her. She wouldn't have to choose between him and everything else.

It choked him, tightening painfully in his chest. He was dangerously close to tears himself. That sense of panic that had overtaken him in the kitchen earlier was returning, burgeoning in his gut, and he knew his heartbeat was accelerating beneath her head.

"I love you," he whispered into the curls that covered her ear. "I love you, Hermione." He said it impulsively, almost desperately, as if he was pleading with her to believe him...as if he was begging her to realize that it mattered.

For a long moment, she gave no reaction. He wondered if she'd heard him, or if he'd only imagined speaking the words; if either was the case, he would repeat it as many times as he had to, because this was the time that she needed to know, out loud, that her choices were not in vain. His ego could stand the vulnerability of the declaration much better than the terrifying thought that she might leave him.

"I kn-know," she hiccupped into his chest.

That was all she said. His mind raced with phrases, things that he wished to high heaven he was brave enough to say to her, but the precariousness of the moment muzzled him.

But she no longer shook, and her breathing began to even out. In another five minutes, Lucius dared to move; he did so and discovered that she had cried herself to sleep. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, her nose runny, and the rivulets of tears sculpted into her makeup. He bit his lips. He never wanted to see her like this again.

With a gentleness designed not to wake her, he dried her tears and wiped her nose with his sleeve. Then he kissed her dry lips and left the bed. He needed time and space to think.

* * *

He was on the back porch staring into the blackness of a night in the countryside when Paolo wandered quietly out to join him. By now Lucius knew it was late. He had been out here a long time and was no closer to making sense of the feelings that roiled within him. His stomach also roiled, but he was almost certain that that was more due to whatever poison Paolo had given him in the kitchen to clear his head.

"Don't worry about us," Lucius said softly. "Go to sleep."

"Can't," the Italian replied succinctly.

Sighing, Lucius lowered himself down onto the step to sit. After a moment Paolo did the same. There they sat in silence for what seemed like a very long time.

Paolo shifted, turning towards Lucius and frowning. "I cannot sleep, Luciano, because I keep thinking about the terrible thing I once did."

Lucius tried not to laugh. Whatever Paolo thought was terrible would surely be next to nothing. He was too good a man to make the kind of mistakes Lucius had.

"I was a boy," Paolo went on. "I didn't understand. But now that I am grown, a man with his own children…"

Lucius lifted his eyes to the dark-haired man. Paolo was going to confess to him, that much was obvious. Lucius wouldn't begrudge him the listening ear or whatever forgiveness he sought. He knew how important both were now.

"When I was young, I saw another boy being abused by his father. He hit him so hard that I thought he broke his neck." Paolo swallowed. "I had never…my parents did not hit me. I was…afraid, and confused…and in the end, I did nothing. I said nothing. No one ever knew, and that boy…he was locked away for the rest of the summer, and I never saw him again after that. I had one chance to help him and I didn't."

A cold tide of shock washed over Lucius. Was he talking about _that_ summer, the one that comprised their brief acquaintance, nay, friendship, so long ago? Was the boy he spoke of…_him_?

The shame in Paolo's eyes said yes. Lucius was momentarily tongue-tied. The other man had seen his scuffle with his father that day. Had Paolo been carrying that guilt all these years? There was nothing he could have done, absolutely nothing. And if he had seen Abraxas wallop him…what else had he seen?

"I…" he tried, still taken aback by the heartfelt confession. "There was nothing you could have done. My father was a dangerous man. Any attempt to interfere would have ended badly, trust me."

"I should have said something. My parents could have called the police."

With a shake of his head, Lucius reached out to grip the other man's wrist. "It wouldn't have mattered. I can't tell you why, Paolo, but nothing you or your parents or the police might have done would have made a difference."

Paolo looked at his feet. "It must have been a difficult childhood for you."

Lucius let his hand drop and rested his arms on his knees. It was true, it had been, but his father was not the primary culprit, and physical abuse was certainly not the main mechanism of his suffering. "My father…he didn't hit me often. It only happened when he was extremely frustrated with me. _That_ couldn't happen very frequently because he was never home."

"And your mother?"

"She was an alcoholic." He didn't need to say anymore than that.

"You deserved better."

"All children do, I suppose."

Another silence reigned. Then Paolo swallowed.

"You do not resent me for it?"

"Not at all," Lucius replied. It had never even crossed his mind to bear a grudge. What could a mere Muggle boy do when confronted with the monstrosities of the world? What could _any_ child do?

"I'm sorry."

"No need for apologies." Lucius looked at his as yet unconvinced friend thoughtfully. "Someday I will explain everything." And he supposed it was a mark of all that had changed when he realized that he actually meant it.

* * *

Lucius had gone to sleep oddly soothed by the encounter with Paolo. His stomach settled, his mind shut off, and he barely made it under the covers before sleep took him. He realized that he had forgotten his medication, but it could wait til morning.

He drifted out of sleep hours later and stretched lazily. Normally when he did he had to try not to nudge Hermione. When he was able to extend his knee without obstruction, he knew that something was off.

His eyes snapped open. Waking in a room that was not your own was always disorienting, but that wasn't the source of his mounting panic. It was that he woke _alone_.

He scrambled from the bed. Logically he knew that Hermione was most likely in the kitchen or the loo. Still, considering the state she had been in last night, the worm of doubt in his gut was very strong indeed.

He wasn't sure what time it was, but the sun was up and the house was empty. Paolo and Elisabetta were nowhere to be found. Neither was Hermione. Again, his rational mind told him that it was Monday. Hermione had class. But could she really stomach going to class after what had happened the night before?

He had no idea. Lucius rubbed his hands over his face. He was trying not to panic. For all he knew, she might simply be up at the villa. But why would she leave him? There wasn't even a note.

With a concerted effort, he kept his breathing even as he gathered his things. Then he scribbled a brief thank you to their hosts and took some of the breakfast offering they had left out. He wasn't hungry, but he didn't want them to think their effort hadn't been appreciated. It was obvious that Hermione had not eaten any of it.

He set out along the road back to the villa, hoping and praying that she would be there.

* * *

Hermione was not at the villa. She was walking down an unfamiliar street, a piece of parchment clutched in a death grip in her left hand. How dare that bitch. How dare she!

She had gone back up to the villa to think. Leaving Lucius had never crossed her mind, but his proximity made it difficult to think objectively. After the way he had held her, caressed her, and confessed to her last night, she could hardly look at him, let alone _think_, without being overwhelmed at the intensity of her feelings for him.

There had to be a way to make Harry come to his senses. That was what she had been fiercely ruminating upon until the owl swooped in the large window and headed right for her. The letter was in an unfamiliar hand.

_Granger,_

_I am writing to let you know that I know your secret. I know you're sleeping with Lucius Malfoy and I have the evidence to prove it. Those knickers you left at his house were more than enough to catch you. If you want your tryst to remain a secret, I expect to see you at my home in the very near future, alone and unarmed. You have until Wednesday._

_And in case you doubted my seriousness, be advised that I have informed your dear friend Harry Potter of your activities. If you choose to ignore me, I will confront your ex, Weasley, and then make an appointment with Ms. Rita Skeeter, and everyone will know of your behavior._

_~Marietta Edgecombe_

Her _behavior_ - as if being with Lucius was something completely taboo and abhorrent! Well, she'd had just about enough of _that _attitude. Lucius was a man and she was a woman and by whatever strange circumstance, they had fallen in love. There was nothing wrong with it and she wouldn't let anyone, especially not a viper like Marietta, tell her otherwise.

She turned precipitously into the walkway of an apartment building. It was a new construction, sleek and streamlined, so much so that it actually seemed a little devoid of life. Or perhaps her tastes had been irrevocably altered by life in the villa; no matter how they cleaned it there was always a stubborn patina of age about it…and that was what made it so charming.

Hermione rode the elevator with full awareness that she probably looked like she was ready to rip someone's head off. Truthfully, she was. She could throttle the redhead. Marietta wouldn't know real love if it slapped her in the face, for the only person she'd ever loved was herself.

She stepped off at the fourteenth floor. Funny, since Marietta was acting like she was precisely fourteen at the moment. She didn't bother with gentleness when she pounded on number 1408. If the wench wanted to see her, she wouldn't prolong the anticipation. Hermione was ready to face this here and now.

* * *

There was an orange cat lounging on the large rock along the pathway. Lucius squinted at it. His spirits were lifted slightly when he realized that it was Musca. The cat had been absent the first few days of their return.

He knew the cat was feral, and given the chance he would return to the wild existence he'd had before Lucius and Hermione arrived, but it was something of a comfort that his new 'familiar' had not disappeared. At least _someone_ would stay with him.

He didn't even have to seduce the cat with food. As Lucius passed, Musca leapt from the rock and began to trot behind him. He had grown a bit; his kittenish looks were slowly giving way to the musculature of an adult cat, but he was not quite there yet. If Hermione was not in the villa, Lucius supposed he had many years to note the small changes in his familiar, for he would have nothing else to do except mope.

He sighed. This insecurity was not comfortable. That was what one got, he reflected, when one let his guard down enough to fall in love.

* * *

The door was pulled open cautiously, only far enough for the chain lock to snap smartly and a green-blue eye above a combination of freckles and faded scar marks to peer out. Then a pale hand curled about a wand came up. Hermione eyed the delicate wrist, wishing she could slam the door on it. Unfortunately, she was on the wrong side for that.

"Hand me your wand, Granger."

Hermione pulled it from her pocket with a no-nonsense flourish. It settled into Marietta's other hand, but Hermione didn't let go immediately.

"You should be aware, Edgecombe, that I don't need a wand to defend myself. I also won't hesitate to go to the Aurors if you hex me. I didn't come here so you could play out some twisted revenge fantasy."

"I only want one thing, Granger."

"Then stop hiding behind your door and come out and say it," she retorted coldly.

Marietta yanked the wand from her hand, and a second later the door slammed. Hermione felt no anxiety without her wand. What could Marietta do with it, anyway? Sure enough, a moment later the door opened all the way. The redhead was armed with both wands as she gestured for Hermione to enter.

Hermione strode in as if it was her own apartment. She didn't want to give Marietta the satisfaction of seeing her unnerved. She wasn't. She was just dealing with another bottom feeder.

Marietta further proved that a moment later. After shutting and locking the door, she turned and crossed her arms over her chest. A smug little smile lifted her thin lips.

"So, the mudblood and the pureblood." She snorted as if punctuate the hateful sentiment. "Malfoy has certainly lowered his standards."

"I would say that he's raised them." Hermione smirked back at Marietta. "Jealous?"

Marietta nearly doubled over with laughter, but Hermione could tell that it was an artificial laughter. She didn't feel insulted by it. The redhead's laugh was empty. She was mocking what she couldn't have.

"You always did have a distorted sense of importance, Granger."

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "What is it that you want, Marietta?"

The other witch gave her an incredulous look. "Do you really not _know_?"

Hermione raised her hands in an angry shrug. She hadn't thought about Marietta Edgecombe in years. She had no idea what this adult, though apparently no more mature, person would want.

Marietta jabbed her wand at her own face. Hermione felt the whir of magic, the sound of glamours falling away, and for the first time she saw her own handiwork up close. The word 'Sneak' was still very clear, emblazoned across her cheeks and nose in pink pointillistic scars.

"You still have those?" she gasped, truly surprised.

"Of course I do!" Marietta nearly shouted. "Don't act like you didn't know!"

"I didn't!"

"I don't believe you for a second," she hissed. "Now, unless you want your dirty laundry on the front page of the Prophet, you tell me what the countercurse is!"

For a moment, Hermione felt sympathetic. It was quickly eclipsed when she realized what it meant that Marietta still had those ugly reminders on her face.

"I will tell you what the countercurse is, Marietta." She drew herself up straight and speared the redheaded witch in a glare. "The only thing you ever had to do to fix things was apologize. It didn't even have to be face to face. You just had to admit that what you did was wrong."

Shock bloomed on Marietta's face. Hermione pushed on.

"Do you know what might have happened to us? Did you have any idea of the stakes? For _our_ families? We could have died that year. It wasn't just some game. I thought everyone would understand that after what happened to Cedric the year before."

"I – I…," Marietta sputtered, "you mean all I had to do was say sorry?" Her eyes widened. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Hermione shook her head, because nothing had changed upon her rapidly flushing face. "It's not that simple, Marietta. You have to mean it."

Her eyes filled with tears. "I was doing what I thought was right! I was protecting my family! I can't apologize for that!"

Hermione blinked back her own tears. "I am in love with Lucius and won't apologize for that, either. You can tell whoever you want, Marietta. Inform the whole damn world. The only person whose opinion matters to me is Harry's, and he's already made it abundantly clear how he feels." She turned to leave, flicking her wrist out in a silent Accio. Her wand arced from Marietta's limp hand into her own.

Just before she stepped out the door, she paused and looked back at the half-angry, half-distraught witch. "You know," she said softly, "the spell doesn't discriminate. It isn't smart enough to split hairs. If there is _anything_ about that situation that you feel sorry for, anything at all, you should try apologizing for that. It just might work."

* * *

"This is rather fortuitous."

Lucius started at the unfamiliar voice at the edge of his wards. If he had not been so distracted by thoughts of Hermione, he might have reacted better to the sudden threat.

Lucius reached reflexively for his wand, but the bag of food he'd taken from Paolo and Elisabetta's hindered him. The second of interference was just enough to give his opponent the advantage he needed. Lucius heard the authoritative bark of a man casting a spell and he waited for it to strike true.

The hex took his breath away, filling him with pain so sharp that it seemed like a thousand little needles were stabbing him at once, inside and out. He couldn't even hold onto his wand. Merlin. It was not Cruciatus, that he knew, but it felt just as bad. Lucius sank to his knees in the dirt.

He tried to make his arm work, to reach for his wand where it lay in the brown grass just off the path, but every movement was excruciating. It brought tears to his eyes even to extend his finger. What was this? _Who_ was this?

Musca was in front of him, hackles raised and a menacing hiss rolling from his throat. Someone chuckled and then a pair of feet came into view. A second later an intrepid arm dared to snatch the cat up by the scruff of his neck. Musca was deposited into a small sphere of magic and Lucius felt sick; it was not unlike the one the Dark Lord has used to shield Nagini during the last days of the war.

"It feels better if you just lay still," a smug, masculine voice advised him.

Though his body was paralyzed with pain, his brain was not. It caught up quickly and had no trouble piecing together what was occurring, mostly because he had expected it. Of course it had to be the one moment in which his guard was down…

"You killed Netherwood," Lucius ground out as his eyes took in the shape of the man. About six feet tall, lean, slightly pigeon-toed. He was dressed in Chameleon robes; they were enchanted to blend into whatever background the wearer was immersed in and they were primarily used by scientists who studied magical creatures and smugglers who hunted them. They didn't obscure the wearer's face, hands, and feet, so they weren't quite on par with an invisibility cloak, but they were terrifically expensive, required permits to own, and were considered the next best thing. With the cloak and a blank fabric mask that reminded Lucius entirely too much of a Dementor, his attacker was all but invisible.

The man ignored his question. "I want only one thing from you, Mr. Malfoy. If you provide me with the answer I seek no harm will come to you." His wand twirled lazily in his hand and Lucius catalogued that, too: about ten inches, what looked to be maple. It was a generic wand and hundreds probably carried something similar, but every detail would count. "As I said, this is fortuitous. Your wards are strong. If you hadn't come along, I would have had to wait."

Slowly, Lucius was beginning to get used to the pain. It had been a long time since he experienced so much. However, this man had seriously underestimated his ability to tolerate it. He had also underestimated the rage that was beginning to boil in Lucius's gut.

"Why did you kill him?" he growled. "He was just a publisher."

"An uncooperative publisher," the other wizard replied coldly. He looked around briefly, seeming to notice that they were out in the open for the first time. "I think there are better venues for this."

And before Lucius could say anything, a hand clapped down on his shoulder and the sickening tug of Apparition had him.

* * *

Hermione trudged up the long path, hands in her pockets. She had gone back to Paolo and Elisabetta's after the confrontation with Edgecombe, half hoping that Lucius would still be asleep in bed waiting for her. It was just past noon, though. He wasn't the type to sleep that late unless the rare bout of insomnia had kept him awake.

He wasn't there. Neither were their hosts. It was Monday; they were probably at work. She should have been in class. Never had her attendance been so bad as it was this first term of healer school.

She did like the walk up to the villa. It was almost always deserted, fringed with beautiful trees and flowers; nothing could clear the mind for deep thought like an open road. The grooves and footprints in the dirt were something to meditate upon.

She was pulling her wand out, ready to recite the password to lift the wards, when she stopped short and paused. She had seen something on the edge of the path a moment ago. It hadn't quite processed, but now…had she seen what she thought she saw?

Hermione turned back and retraced her steps. Then her eyes widened. Yes, her eyes were not deceiving her. Lucius's wand was lying in the grass just off the path.

She sunk down to retrieve the precious object, her mouth a round O of surprise. Just then, there was a sound that she recognized as the angry yowl of a cat, and a large blob was moving towards her. Hermione screamed, caught off guard, and pointed Lucius's wand at it. She was halfway through a hex when she realized it was Musca.

He was in the magical equivalent of a hamster ball – and he was not best pleased about it.

* * *

Lucius barely kept what little food he'd ingested down when the Apparition was complete. It was a struggle, but he managed it. Any victory counted right now. Once he got his stomach in check, he lifted his head, grimacing at the stabbing pains it caused, and looked at his abductor.

However, as soon as he did, it became evident that the setting was far more important. His eyes widened slightly as he took it all in. This had to be where the books were printed. It was deserted, but the evidence was everywhere. From neat stacks of blank parchment to tremendous vats of ink to complex hybrid magical-mechanical machines, it screamed of book production. He wondered what it would look like in motion.

He swallowed a moment later, when he noticed a large pile of books waiting to be packaged and shipped. Dozens and dozens of book spines stared at him, each starkly printed with the word _Faim_. In their last correspondence, Netherwood had mentioned that the book was still selling well in spite of it being several months past its release date; this was his proof. And before him was Netherwood's killer – he was certain of it.

"All these machines," the mystery man mused. "They look so interesting at rest, don't they, Mr. Malfoy?" He walked over to the nearest one and activated it with a simple touch of his wand. It whirred to life. Soon it was sorting pages at lightning speed, so fast that Lucius could barely follow it.

The other man wandered away from the machine. He headed for the myriad copies of _Faim_, plucking one from the top of the pile. "Amazing, isn't it? This one little book has entranced a lot of people. And yet, no one even knows if it is truth or lies." He turned, book in hand. "Except you."

Lucius kept his face neutral. He was very practiced at giving nothing away in his expression. The man was digging, testing…seeing if there was any reaction. Lucius would not give him one. Instead, he spoke up calmly. "All I did was help Netherwood to set up the accounts. I had nothing to do with the book and certainly not with the author."

"I don't believe you." He dropped the book on the floor. It landed with a loud smack, echoing throughout the cavernous room. "If you do not tell me who the author is in the next minute, I will cast the Imperius on you and force you to put your own hand into that machine."

Lucius's eyes flickered to the device in question. He watched it suck up a sheet of parchment between two metal rollers. If a human arm went in there…well, at the least it would be crushed, and at the worst, it would be pulled right off. He didn't fancy either.

"You see, I wasted a lot of time giving Netherwood _chances_. It took too long and became rather messy. I learned my lesson." He cocked his wand at Lucius. "Twenty seconds, Mr. Malfoy."

Twenty seconds to come up with a plan. Twenty seconds to figure out how to get him close enough that Lucius could physically attack and wrestle his wand away from him, or get him to drop his guard, or turn away…

He lifted the wand, and Lucius spoke just in time.

"I don't know who wrote the book, but I can get you the man who does."

There was a heavy pause, one in which Lucius braced for the Imperius.

Then, "Who would that be?"

Internally, Lucius smiled. He had just bought himself another five minutes, at least. "His agent," he said, and waited to see what would happen next.

* * *

Hermione was beside herself. She didn't know who to call. She knew Lucius was keeping in touch with Auror Dawlish regarding the case, but she couldn't very well show up in Dawlish's office. That would require a lot of explaining. Though, if Marietta was about to out them anyway, perhaps it didn't matter.

She could go to Harry. Merlin only knew if he would be willing to help her now. But at least he already knew…

That settled it; she'd try Harry first. And if her onetime best friend refused to help her, she would have no choice but to go to Dawlish or Kingsley himself. The time for secrecy was over. What mattered now was that Lucius came back to her in one piece.

The instructors at the Auror training camp informed her that Harry was on patrol duty in Diagon Alley today. She prayed that he was not teamed with Ron. Ron could be thick, but he would definitely notice the tension that was sure to exist between his best mate and ex. That was something that she didn't feel like dealing with today, but if she had to…she would.

She weaved through the crowds, desperate for a glimpse of unkempt black hair or bespectacled green eyes. At last the answer came to her; he would stop by Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Sure enough, that was where she found him, standing outside the shop talking with George while still managing to look somewhat authoritative in his Auror robes.

George saw her first. His face lit up. Instantly she felt guilty that she wouldn't be able to stay and talk with him.

"Hermione!" he said genially, grinning from ear to ear. "I haven't seen you in ages!"

She allowed herself to be enfolded in a trademark Weasley hug, one that squeezed the breath right out of her. Ron had rarely been that happy to see her. What had she ever seen in him? But that was beside the point.

"Hi, George," she said, offering a weak smile. "I would really love to catch up, but I need to borrow Harry. It's important."

Her tone and her fragile look must have clued him in. George nodded. "Well, I'd best stop talking Harry's ear off before he gets in trouble, anyhow. Stop by sometime, okay, Hermione? I've got some interesting new prototypes for you to scold me over."

"I will," she said, and she meant it. With one more smile, George waved and then disappeared back into his shop. That left her on the corner with Harry.

He merely looked at her, much as he had the day before - waiting. He wasn't going to give her an inch. At least he wasn't yelling.

Hermione took a deep breath. "Is there somewhere we can talk privately for a few minutes?"

"About what?" he bit off.

"Don't be thick, Harry," she replied. She looked around. For the moment, the block didn't appear to be too crowded. Lowering her voice, she leaned slightly closer to him and said, "I need your help, Harry, not as a friend, but as an Auror."

"What, did you convince some more people to lie for Malfoy and need help covering your tracks? Go elsewhere, Hermione."

She could have slapped him again, but that would be counterproductive. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut before replying. "Yes, Harry, I know that was wrong, but that's for me to deal with."

"Then why aren't you off dealing with it?"

"Don't test me, Harry. I may be here asking you for help, but I won't let you insult me."

His lips compressed slightly, but he said nothing. At last he turned his head to make eye contact. "What is it, then?"

"I think Lucius has been abducted." She produced his wand from her pocket; it was clearly recognizable by its trademark silver snake handle. "I found this on the path up to the villa, and his familiar was imprisoned in a bubble, like the one Voldemort put Nagini in."

His eyes flickered from the wand to her face. Then he sighed, and his face became visibly anxious. "Do you think it's connected to the Netherwood case?"

She nodded. "He's said that he believes he is the next target. He put up very strong wards." Hermione bit her lips. "They must have caught him by surprise before he made it inside."

Harry looked at her sideways. "Where were you?"

Hermione lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eye. "I had a little meeting with Marietta Edgecombe."

A tense silence lingered between them. Then, Harry rubbed a hand through his hair. "Right nasty bitch, isn't she?"

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat. At least they could agree on that. "Yes." She looked at her feet for a moment, and then back up at him. "Harry, I would have told you eventually, if she hadn't beat me to it. I just…I needed to be ready."

He said nothing. Then Harry heaved a great sigh. "Okay. Give me the wand. I'll contact Auror Dawlish and say that I received an anonymous tip, went to check things out, and found the wand."

"He'll yell at you for going on your own, and only as a trainee."

"I know," Harry said softly. "But it's the only way to keep your secret, isn't it?"

Hermione's eyes stung. He couldn't apologize yet, and peace had not been made, but this was the Harry she knew and loved. "I don't know if there's a point to lying. Edgecombe might be meeting with Rita Skeeter right now."

"Did you give her the countercurse?"

Hermione nodded. "Oh, yes…and it's up to her now."

"I guess we can hope that she suddenly discovers her conscience."

"I don't much care." At Harry's look of surprise, Hermione explained, "The only person whose opinion really mattered to me was yours."

He closed his eyes. "I…I just don't _understand_ it, Hermione. I can't…after everything…"

"It's all right. I'm not asking you to understand."

He opened his eyes again and reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly. "But I want to." He looked at the serpent-topped wand, so out of place in his grip. "I'll do my best, Hermione."

Harry took a step back and Apparated.

* * *

"Tell me his name."

"I can't," Lucius replied.

"Don't play games with me, Malfoy," the other man said in a menacing tone.

"I'm not. I can't speak his name. I'm under an Unbreakable Vow."

His captor growled out loud. "That is what Netherwood said, too." He strode forward angrily. "Is the identity of this author so sensational that the secret is worth dying for?"

That was all Lucius needed. His guard was down, he was close enough that a dive for a wand could be successful, and he believed Lucius to be all but incapacitated by his hex. He steeled himself. This was going to hurt like hell, but many things he'd gone through had been just as bad and here he was.

"You have judged it worth killing for," he spat. It was the final ingredient.

The wizard, so easily goaded, stepped closer and lifted his arm to strike. Lucius took his opportunity and lunged.

* * *

As expected, Dawlish had yelled at him. Harry endured it stoically even though he had done nothing wrong. He had the feeling that if it was anybody but him, the tongue lashing would have been much worse.

Dawlish had thrown together a team of six practically before Harry could blink. Then, after they were all briefed on the location they were Apparating to and why, Dawlish gave him a pointed look.

"Care to join us, Mr. Potter, since you know the area so well?"

* * *

It hurt fiercely, but adrenaline overpowered the pain. Lucius fought tooth and nail for the single wand between them. The two men rolled on the dusty floor, both with a hand on the wand. The man's other hand was on his throat and spots were dancing before his eyes as a trickle of air made it to his lungs. So help him, they would have to pry the wand from his cold dead hand…

The scuffle brought them up against the boxes of books, waiting glumly for shipment. Lucius felt his back slam against the precarious stacks. Then, ever so slightly, they shifted. With wide eyes, he saw the top box begin to fall. It probably had 500 books in it; falling from such a height, it could kill both of them.

The other man saw it, too, and evidently sought to use it to his advantage. He suddenly pulled away, abandoning the wand and the fight. Lucius squeezed his eyes shut, initiated the Apparition, and prayed that he could do it fast enough. He didn't want to die crushed under a shipment of his own books.

The sudden prickle of dry Tuscan grass on his back told him that he wouldn't meet his end that way. However, something wasn't right. His body felt off. He tried to move. His left arm didn't move with him.

He sat up, staring at the appendage in astonishment. It lay in the grass as if it had never been attached to him at all…like a Halloween prop. He had splinched himself.

Dazed, he looked at the wand in his remaining hand. The wand had a split in it, a hairline fracture probably attained during the fight. It had not been him. Fighting tears of shock, he told himself that it was better to be down an arm, and painlessly via splinching, than to be dead under a ton of books, or waiting for death while that psychopath tortured him.

Nonetheless, he reached out and grabbed his other arm, unable to fight the surrealism of the moment. He tucked it under his right arm and struggled to his feet. Lucius dropped the broken wand; it was useless. His wand was around here somewhere, close by…if he could just find it he would be safe.

But his wand, his only defense, was nowhere to be found. The last option was to retreat within his wards. He would be safe there, and he could call Tiresias and Hermione through the floo.

The moment he turned, a pop sounded behind him. Lucius clenched his jaw. Let it be the Aurors. Let it be Hermione. Anyone but…

"I see I didn't even have to run your hand through that machine," the cold voice sounded.

Lucius pivoted, teeth bared in anger. So he had two wands. The other was obviously a dummy, a backup that could not be traced. What he wielded now was his real wand. He hadn't learned, though; he was still too close – and Lucius wielded a perverse wand of his own.

Allowing his rage to take over, he swung. Because, really, it was not every day that he got to assault a murderer with his own severed limb.

* * *

Something was very, very wrong. They all knew it upon the moment of arrival. Some distance up the path, a blond wizard was running, and what appeared to be only hands and feet were running after him. Worse, it seemed that Malfoy was bleeding from some kind of wound.

"Sweet Merlin," one of the other Aurors breathed, "is he missing an arm?"

Harry squinted. Then he felt queasy. The answer to that was, unequivocally, yes.

"Get moving!" Dawlish barked.

* * *

A Jelly-Legs hex felled him and Lucius cursed. He hit the ground hard because there was only one hand to break his fall. He could barely breathe, but he was so close to the wards…just a little further…and if he had to crawl, he would…

"Just tell me, Malfoy, and I might spare your other arm," the wizard said, his feet crunching on the packed earth. Now he was taunting; he was just out of Lucius's reach. He had learned his lesson and had the broken nose to prove it. Lucius was trapped.

He continued to crawl toward the wards anyway. They were so close he could feel the hum of magic prickling against his skin. He wouldn't give up. He was not going to leave Hermione, not so soon…

"Stupefy!"

And he winced, knowing it was over.

* * *

Harry could scarcely believe that Dawlish could move so fast. No wonder he ranked so high. He didn't even hesitate when he Apparated further up the path. The second he materialized, he fired a Stunner. The attacker sidestepped it, and Dawlish could hardly be faulted for missing since his target was mostly invisible. Dawlish and two others fired again, but by the time their spells converged, slamming into one another and creating a brilliant red firework, the villain was gone.

* * *

Lucius lay on his back, chest heaving, waiting. He didn't think he'd been stunned. He didn't feel stunned. Laughter bubbled up inside his chest, the mad kind, and he stifled it. Of _course_ he was stunned, just not by a spell!

"Merlin and Morgana," Dawlish swore, swimming into his vision. "Mr. Malfoy, are you all right?"

What an absurd question. His eyes drooped shut out of pure exhaustion.

"I'm sorry, stupid question," Dawlish muttered. "We need to get you to St. Mungo's. The arm should reattach, it looks like a pretty clean amputation…"

Lucius's eyes flew open. "The blood. Don't touch the blood!"

Dawlish looked confused. "Lucius--"

"The curse. It can be transmitted through blood. If you touch it, you will be infected. Please!"

The Auror nodded, stoic in spite of the tone of fear that permeated Malfoy's voice. "Okay. No touching. We still need to take you to the hospital."

"No. Call my healer. Tiresias Smythe. You can floo him inside the house…just…give me a wand to lift…the…w…"

His face went very white and his eyes rolled back.

* * *

Some time later, his eyelids rose. All was unfamiliar, yet he knew he was safe; that undefined sixth sense told him the danger was over. The face that loomed over his bedside a moment later confirmed it.

"Damn it, Lucius," Tiresias said, appearing tired and worried. "I leave you alone for five minutes and you go and lose an arm."

"It's gone?" he whispered, his voice gravelly. Dawlish had said it would reattach…not that he was a Healer, but he had likely seen things like that before. He had hoped the Auror was right.

"No," Smythe chuckled. "It was a joke. I didn't mean to alarm you. You're as good as new." To prove his point, he reached down and jabbed him in the left arm. Lucius felt it. He swallowed heavily.

"Do it again."

Smythe raised an eyebrow, but didn't object. This time he pinched.

"Ouch," Lucius protested mildly. He lifted his arm to retaliate, well aware that it was childish behavior, but his fingers were too clumsy. He couldn't do it.

"You might feel a bit uncoordinated for a day or two. It'll pass."

Lucius nodded.

"I'm glad you're all right."

"So am I," he replied. "I just wish they'd caught him."

Smythe grinned. "They know who he is. His blood was all over your, er, weapon of choice."

Ah, yes. He had given the bastard a good hit or two with his detached arm. It made sense that he would have bled upon it.

"Who is it?"

"You'll have to talk to the Aurors about that, they wouldn't tell me."

He nodded again. Then his eyes flickered up; he was too tired to conceal the apprehension in them. "Does Hermione know?"

"Yes. She was the one who called the Aurors after she found your wand." Smythe tilted his head slightly. "She was here earlier, but you were still unconscious. Same with your family."

Lucius breathed an ambiguous sigh. "The Healers knew to use precautions, right? I tried to tell Dawlish, but I'm not sure how coherent I was."

"They knew."

"Good."

Tiresias watched him. Lucius was fighting exhaustion. It was to be expected; he'd lost a lot of blood. Tiresias did wish that they had contacted him sooner; by the time he got a floo call from Auror Dawlish, Lucius was already undergoing the procedures necessary to reattach the arm. It wasn't that he thought he could have done it better. It just would have made him a lot more comfortable to be there to oversee the necessary precautions.

Fortunately, the hospital staff knew he was "cursed". Dawlish had warned them that his blood might be infectious. All had emerged unscathed, courtesy of gloves, gowns, and shielding charms. It was the best-case scenario.

He smiled to himself. That didn't happen often. The medical profession was frequently filled with worst-case scenarios and he had the feeling that he had become too used to that.

Whatever resentment he had been feeling towards Lucius as a result of his sudden push into the public eye evaporated. Yes, working with him had made life more complicated than usual. Yes, he was a tremendous commitment that came with plenty of outspoken people who believed he didn't deserve help and that his healer was awful for providing it. Though he hadn't known all the details when he agreed to take him on, Tiresias didn't regret it.

Lucius was a good man. More than that, he was a friend. His gut feeling when he saw him being tended to by a half dozen healers had not been medical in nature; it had been _oh thank Merlin he's all right I'd like to catch that sonofabitch that did this to him and rip HIS arm off god I hope everything works out…_

And it had. Tiresias smiled, realizing that Lucius was back in dreamland. He looked at his watch. If he left now, he'd have just enough time for a little dreamland of his own.


	29. Chapter 29

Tiresias emerged from the dimly lit hospital room and blinked against the fluorescent lights in the hallway. It was late and the corridor was deserted save for the nursing station a few yards down. A yawn overtook him and he indulged in a good stretch; perhaps a cup of coffee was on the agenda before flooing back to Vancouver.

He walked to the end of the hallway, nodding at the bored nurses. It took only a few seconds for the lift to arrive. Since it was late, he didn't think anyone would be on the lift, but he was wrong; when the door opened, he nearly walked into a pretty brunette.

"I'm sorry, excuse me," he apologized, backtracking and stepping aside to let her out. She nodded, but didn't move.

He stood there for half a minute, waiting. She remained on the threshold of the elevator. Tiresias took a minute to appraise her more carefully since there was little else to do in the moment of awkwardness.

She was tall, lean but feminine, with pale skin and sharp, striking features. Aristocratic, almost. Her hair was dark and curly, gathered into a ponytail that fell far past her shoulders. Most interestingly, she was clutching a small stack of parchment to her chest.

"Are you going to get off?" he asked softly.

She swallowed. "No." Then she took a step back into the elevator. Cautiously, Tiresias followed, trying to figure her out.

"Down?" he questioned, his hand hovering over the button.

She only nodded. He pressed the button for the ground floor. They rode in silence, Tiresias sneaking curious glances at her the entire time.

It took all of thirty seconds. Then the lift slowed and the doors slid open, revealing the lobby. Again, she made no move to get off the elevator. Tiresias stepped out, mind racing, wondering what it was that she feared that simultaneously kept her from seeing whoever she was here for and leaving.

He pivoted abruptly. "Would you like to--"

But he was cut off by the doors of the lift snapping shut. Just before they shut her away from him, she lifted her head and made eye contact. He saw a lot in that moment; she was angry, she was afraid, and she was grateful. He stood there, staring at the door and listening to the melodic pinging of the elevator as it ascended back to the fifth floor.

Then he registered the sound of someone chuckling. Tiresias turned and saw one of the security guards smiling.

"Hey, mate," the heavyset man spoke up, "she was pretty. I don't blame you for trying."

With a slight flush, he nodded. Then, shoving his hands in his pockets, he headed for the floo stations, his cup of coffee entirely forgotten.

* * *

She rode the elevator sixteen times. No matter how she tried, she could not get off. She hated this hospital, any hospital. She hated what happened to people to get them here.

She didn't really know why she'd come, anyway. It was three in the morning. Lucius would not be awake. Ah, but perhaps that was why she had only been able to work up the courage to come now.

Who did he think he was? What made him think that one letter was enough to make her forgive? Her hands squeezed and crumpled the parchment for what must have been the tenth time. Were there no bounds to his arrogance?

People had minds of their own. He could not excuse Narcissa. He was not some martyr, taking the responsibility for her actions. She knew well enough that the Black women could think for themselves – after all, she was one of them.

Seventeen was a charm. It had to be. Steeling herself, Andromeda stepped off the elevator.

* * *

Perhaps she hoped to kiss him without waking him, but that was all but impossible. Lucius opened his eyes. A concerned pair of doe eyes hovered above him, fringed by long lashes.

"You shouldn't be here," he whispered.

"I know," Hermione said. "I just wanted to see you." Her hand stroked his slightly tangled hair. "I didn't want you to think you were alone."

"I know I'm not."

There was a quiet lull, one in which he enjoyed her attention, eyes closed.

"You scared the hell out of me," she said at last.

"I scared the hell out of you? Last I checked, I didn't attack myself."

She gave him a gentle nudge. "You know what I mean."

He nodded. "Were you in the villa?"

"No."

The slight crease of his brows was the only thing that gave away his apprehension. "Then…where?"

"I was dealing with the person who revealed us to Harry. It was someone who works in forensics at the Ministry. Someone I went to school with. We didn't get along."

"Blackmail?"

"Yes." Hermione sighed. Lucius moved over in the less-than-roomy hospital bed and patted the mattress. Hermione climbed in without hesitation, molding herself against his side.

"Well, just tell me what you need. If it's money, you know where the checkbook is."

"I gave her what she wanted," she sighed. "But I don't know if it will be enough. And really, Lucius, I'm not sure I care anymore. I'm past the hardest part."

He knew she meant the confrontation with Potter. "If it's your desire to go public, then I won't object. I just worry about the toll it will take on you."

"It's not like we have a choice. Either she's going to contact the Prophet or she's not. I have no control over it."

He hugged her to him, pondering the situation. "What happened between you and this girl?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Fair enough." He kissed her forehead. "You know, Hermione, you aren't unarmed in this fight. You said she works in forensics. The Minister ordered that evidence destroyed. She disobeyed a direct order. You could easily cause her to lose her job and her credibility if she chooses to continue down this path."

"So I should blackmail her back?" she responded, a trace of amusement in her voice.

"It was a just a suggestion."

She moved closer to him, draping a leg over his midsection. "I love you."

"I am frequently mystified as to why."

"Shut up."

"I love you, too."

* * *

Andromeda stepped away from the door, mind reeling. She was not suffering from a hallucination; she had just seen Lucius Malfoy and Hermione Granger lying together, kissing, touching, and…discussing their secret relationship.

A jolt of déjà vu hit her like a truck. Her hands began to shake. That was exactly what it had been like in the earliest days with Ted. Always hidden, always fearing that they would be revealed, yet every moment spiraling deeper and deeper into a love that couldn't be denied…

She had to sit down. She walked to the far end of the corridor, where Hermione wouldn't see her when she emerged. Andromeda sat there so long, head in hands, that a nurse came up to her and asked if she was all right.

"Yes, thank you. I'm just…stressed, you know."

The nurse nodded sympathetically. She disappeared and returned a few moments later with a cup of water and a small package of crackers. Andromeda accepted them with a smile. She had no interest in the snack, but the water was welcome; she suddenly felt very thirsty.

After downing it, she smoothed out the parchment in her hands. Until now, she had believed it to be pure bullshit, an attempt on Lucius's part to assist his ex-wife with getting back into her sister's good graces. Her eyes scanned the elegantly scrawled words.

_In spite of whatever has happened in the past, Narcissa loves you. Please forgive her. Someone has recently given me the precious gift of forgiveness and it is more valuable than anything else I could ever hope to possess. If we cannot forgive one another, then this war was truly without victory._

It was Hermione. Hermione was the one who had forgiven him.

_As purebloods we were taught from a young age that family is the most important thing, second only to purity. Some of us were able to see the paradox in that sooner than others. Now we have the chance to right the priorities that were so perverted by these wars and the lingering touch of supremacism. That will never happen if those of us in the wrong aren't given the chance to atone for our mistakes._

Rhetoric. But coming from him, in light of what she knew…Lucius really believed this. It was sincere.

She bit her tongue. It was momentous. He had been one of the most vehemently racist, classist, elitist bastards she had ever had the misfortune of being acquainted with. The man in the hospital bed who agreed to be outed to the public in the midst of a love affair with a Muggleborn was not the same. Lucius had changed.

Everything had changed. For the first time in a long time, the fierce woman inside her was stirred. She would not allow the pressures of the world to come between the mismatched couple down the hall. She would not allow anyone to tell them they were wrong, because she had never allowed anyone to tell her that she and Ted were wrong. Love was love.

She stood up and walked back to his room. Hermione was still there. They were kissing slowly, sensually, utterly absorbed in one another. Any doubts she might have had about Lucius's true feelings or intentions were dashed. A man didn't kiss a woman like that unless he loved her.

That settled it. She was going to figure out whom that little blackmailing tart was and teach her a lesson about interfering with love. And after that, she would owl Narcissa.

* * *

Lucius woke in the morning to a far less exciting visitor. Dawlish was reading a magazine in the chair across from him. Lucius supposed he must really be bored if he was reading a two-month-old copy of Witch Weekly. He cleared his throat to alert the Auror that he was awake.

Dawlish promptly dropped the magazine. "Ah, you're awake. Good morning."

"Good morning."

The Auror appraised him. "The arm looks good."

"Yes, the healers did a remarkable job." Lucius wiggled his fingers to prove it; they were already more coordinated than they had been last night. Still not perfect, but the improvement was encouraging.

"It must have been quite a fight."

Lucius shrugged. It was all sort of a blur. He remembered everything, but it had already begun to take on that feeling of surrealism. In a few weeks he would be asking himself if it had really happened at all.

"Well, I'm going to need your statement, if you feel up to giving it," the Auror said, shifting in his seat and pulling out a quill and a small notepad. "If not, I can come back later."

"Now is fine. But if I may ask...my healer mentioned that you were able to identify the killer?"

"In a manner of speaking." Dawlish tapped the quill absently on his thigh. "Upon first analysis, the blood sample we obtained appeared to be from Aloysius Pound, the editor of the Critiquill. We took DNA samples during his arrest last week. I'm sure you know that we had to let him go, since we had no evidence to keep him there."

"So it was him?"

Dawlish shook his head. "We re-tested the blood a few hours later, which is a standard precaution to rule out Polyjuice usage. It wasn't Pound's."

"Someone is framing him."

"Exactly. The trouble is, we didn't find a match in the system for the donor blood."

"I assume you looked into the Chameleon robe permits?"

"Indeed," Dawlish said, with a nod to Lucius's cleverness. "There is only one person who has a robe permit of that type and close enough access to Pound to obtain the materials necessary for Polyjuice."

"And that is?"

"His ex-wife, who happens to be one of the star reviewers for his magazine."

Lucius frowned. He wouldn't have guessed that his assaulter was a woman, but that was the wonder of Polyjuice.

"Then we have to take into account that the unidentified blood sample we have belongs to a male, not a female. We're left with some questions."

"I would say so."

"We have a very good idea of who it is," Dawlish said. "We just have to lure him out."

Lucius eyed the Auror for a moment. He didn't even want to know what plans Dawlish was cooking up, for they certainly involved using him as bait. Hermione would not be pleased with that. He would let it slide for now.

"All right. My statement?"

"I'm ready when you are." Dawlish lifted the quill, and Lucius began to talk.

* * *

Hermione could barely stay awake. This was like a History of Magic lecture, only worse. She'd usually gotten more than 3 hours of sleep before History of Magic. It was her own fault for staying so long with Lucius the night before.

It was so frightening seeing him in that hospital bed. She could only imagine the state she'd be in if she had seen him when he came in. Of course, she couldn't have. His family came first; that was their right. Draco and Narcissa had not wasted any time getting to the hospital and that heartened her because it meant they truly cared. It was just frustrating to have to wait to see him when she knew she loved him just as much as they did.

The middle of the night was her time. As usual, once she started kissing him she couldn't stop. It didn't progress beyond that, but it was all too easy to whittle away two hours languidly snogging him; she should have known that by now. She had finally torn herself away when the horizon began to lighten and Lucius warned her that the nurses would be in for his potions soon.

The ensuing sleep had been light and distracted. Now she could barely pay attention; her eyes keep drooping and her head felt like it was full of molasses. Love had certainly taken a toll on her studies.

What she didn't get in class, however, she could easily make up on her own later. Hermione wasn't worried since she'd been doing that her entire life. She just had scholastic guilt over all the days she'd missed and the few that had passed in an exhausted blur, like today.

At last it was over and she gathered up her books. She needed a nap. Then she supposed she would see if Lucius was still in St. Mungo's. Hermione said goodbye to her classmates and emerged into the cool autumn air.

She began to walk to the apparition point and stopped in her tracks. Was she hallucinating? A woman stood on the edge of the piazza. She had dark, corkscrewed hair and a baby blue scarf tucked attractively around her neck.

People continued to walk around her, Muggle and wizard alike; the Muggles didn't realize they had a magical university right in their midst. To them, they were just students like any others. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. She was still there.

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to walk again. She hated when she had moments like that. Rationally, she knew that Bellatrix Lestrage was dead and that there was no way she could be standing in Florence waiting for her. Of course her mind didn't always dwell within the bounds of rationality – she knew better.

The truth was just as inexplicable. It had to be Andromeda standing there, apparently waiting for her. Why? And how had she figured out where to find her? It wasn't common knowledge that Hermione was in school here. Only Harry and Ron knew…though, in all fairness, if Ron knew, it meant every Weasley knew, and that broadened things considerably.

Andromeda smiled as she approached. Hermione allowed her surprised yet happy look to overtake her face and pushed the worries from her mind. No matter what she was here for, it would never be as bad as seeing Harry standing there, eyes red from hastily disguised tears, waiting for her to explain her lies.

* * *

"Absolutely not."

Lucius glanced over at his ex-wife, a hint of incredulity on his face. "Narcissa, he's barely begun to explain the plan."

"Well, my masterful powers of deduction tell me that this plan is going to involve using you as bait. I won't stand for it." She drew herself up, nose in the air. "It's bad enough that their negligence put you in danger the first time around. I won't let them do it purposefully this time."

Dawlish raised an eyebrow. He was clearly biting the inside of his lips to keep from smiling. For his sake, Lucius hoped he managed to contain that smile. Narcissa would eat him alive if he didn't.

"Ms. Black, Lucius was offered a security detail after he was released from house arrest. He declined."

"Did he?" Her icy eyes now turned on him. "He omitted that little detail."

"I didn't want anyone else to lose their lives in this debacle. Not to mention that I value my privacy. How could I be sure that it was not just a ploy to continue investigating me?" Lucius replied.

Gradually, Narcissa's stormy look faded. That was logic she could appreciate.

"I assure you, Ms. Black, our objective is not to put anyone in danger. What I propose is that we catch this criminal in the same way he has tried to fool us," Dawlish continued once he sensed it was safe to go on.

"Polyjuice?" Lucius questioned.

"Yes. There is a fundraising banquet tomorrow evening for Mr. Netherwood's family. He had two children and his wife didn't work. They've got some savings in a Gringotts account, but not much. You already RSVP'd in the positive for the event."

"I would like to attend, yes."

"And you will…in body." Dawlish stood from his seat and paced a few times. "Mr. Pound, editor of the Critiquill, has already agreed to set the trap. The killer will be fed the information that we have someone in custody and believe the danger to be over. In addition, it will be revealed that the author's agent, your fictional creation, will be at the banquet. The killer will no doubt be watching you to see if your behavior in any way reveals the next linkage to the author." The Auror leaned against the back of his chair. "He will reveal himself by attempting to accost you."

Lucius frowned. It was a good plan, but if the killer had a modicum of sense, he would not be drawn out so easily. "What if it's too soon? What if he's too spooked to try again?"

"Then we will have a lovely evening celebrating Mr. Netherwood's life," Dawlish responded succinctly, "and try a different approach."

* * *

Hermione fidgeted with her wine glass. She was at a restaurant with Andromeda now. Idle chitchat over Teddy and how beautiful Florence was had occupied the time thus far. Now, as they waited for the first course, the conversation dwindled.

Strangely enough, it seemed to Hermione that Andromeda was building herself up to something. It was curious; if anything, Hermione was the one who ought to be nervous. Scratch that, she was nervous. Andromeda was a smart, reasonable woman. What if Harry had told her with the intention of her coming to Italy to try to logically talk Hermione out of being with Lucius?

It wouldn't work. It wasn't as if she hadn't gone over those logical pros and cons herself. The simple fact was her heart had won this battle. That was a logic that the brain just couldn't deny.

Andromeda took a sip of wine. Then she looked up at Hermione, eyes cautious but warm. "I know about you and Lucius."

Ah, there it was. Hermione tensed but kept her voice level. "Harry told you, I assume?"

"No," she replied. She drew a line in the condensation on her glass. "I saw you two together at St. Mungo's."

Hermione closed her eyes. It had been against her better judgment to go. She shouldn't have, yet things had been left up in the air before the attack, and if she knew Lucius, he had been wondering if she was rethinking the whole arrangement after Harry's tantrum. She didn't want him to think that she wasn't there because she didn't want to be.

"I'm not here to yell at you or try to talk you out of it," Andromeda said softly.

"What?" Hermione asked, not sure that she'd heard correctly.

"I said I'm not here to try to reason with you. Reason never stands a chance against love." The dark–haired woman smiled wistfully.

Hermione could only stare at her for a few moments. Of all the things she had expected, this was not it. Was she actually…supportive of her relationship with Lucius? It seemed not only improbable, but downright impossible.

"Then," she began shakily, "what are you here for?"

Andromeda reached out and placed her hand over the younger witch's. "I'm here to tell you that if you ever need anything, anything at all, you can come to me. I understand the position you're in. I spent five years of my life hiding my relationship with Ted, always fearing that the wrong person would discover us…always fearing what it would do to us and to our families. I think you know well enough how my family reacted."

Hermione thought of the tapestry at Grimmauld Place and the scorched threads where Andromeda had been. "They were rotten."

"Yes, they were, but they were still my family. I loved them." She looked down at the pristine white tablecloth. "That's why I can understand how you love Lucius. It's the same reason I could love Bellatrix. There are little things that those of us who are closest know about certain people…things that are redeeming and beautiful. Things which outsiders never get to see."

That was certainly true, though she bristled at the talk of anything being redeeming about Bellatrix. Then again, she had not grown up with her. Perhaps she had been sane once upon a time…

"I can see that he's changed. He couldn't love you, otherwise," Andromeda concluded quietly.

"I…I don't know what to say," Hermione whispered.

"You don't have to say anything."

At that moment, their food came, providing a most opportune distraction. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Hermione put down her fork.

"I appreciate this very much, Andromeda, but the secret may already be out."

"Ah yes, the silly bint in the forensics department."

"How do you know about that?"

"I heard you two talking. Who is she?"

Hermione sighed. "A girl from Hogwarts. Our fifth year, Harry and I formed a group to practice defensive spellwork since we weren't being taught anything. We had to operate it covertly because student organizations were banned. Other students signed up at meetings in Hogsmeade. This girl was one of the members of the group." She picked up her fork again and speared at a tomato. "She sold us out when the Ministry began to put some pressure on her parents."

"Hm," Andromeda thought out loud. "And what else?"

"The sign-up parchments for the group were magical. Everyone was paranoid that year, so I figured I ought to be paranoid too. If anyone betrayed us, I wanted to know exactly who it was. So…I charmed it so that whoever gave us up would have the word 'sneak' written across their face in pustules."

Andromeda's brows rose slightly and her lips twitched. "Vindictive, but suitable."

"Yes. I built in a countercurse, of course, that being that all the person had to do was apologize for their actions. This girl never apologized, and to this day she has pustules and scars on her face. Somehow this is my fault," Hermione spat, allowing her disdain to seep through for a quick second.

"Her self-absorption is not your fault," Andromeda shrugged, "but I can see why she would hold a grudge."

"Well, if she'd just come to me, I would have told her what she needed to do."

"But here we are."

Hermione nodded. "I met with her and told her the countercurse. That was what she wanted. I just don't know if that will satisfy her. She may go to the media to spite me."

"Tell me her name," Andromeda said. "I'll have a little talk with her." The tone of her voice was menacing.

"Andromeda…"

"Now, Hermione, you may not have the stomach to blackmail her, and Lucius may not have the flawless reputation he once did to enable him to do it, but I am unrestricted. I can blackmail whoever I want and I guarantee you I will do it better than she does."

"I…was trying not to stoop to her level."

"Very Gryffindor of you," the older woman smiled. "But how can your enemy know what they're up against if you allow yourself to be walked on like that?" She chewed on a piece of chicken, eyes bright with thought. "You need to fire back and make her sorry she ever tried to tangle with you in the first place. It also helps to let her know that you have allies. From what I gather, she doesn't. She's working alone. We can exploit that."

"Andromeda," Hermione repeated, this time struggling to contain the smile that wanted to break out across her face. She often forgot that the eldest Black sister had been in Slytherin House like all the others, save Sirius. Andromeda frequently seemed too nice and too normal to be from the house of Salazar.

"I know," she replied, holding up a hand. "I'm being terribly Slytherin right now. The difference is that I only behave this way when important things are on the line. Things like love and the well-being of the people I care about."

"I do appreciate it."

The dark-haired woman paused, briefly pressing her napkin to her lips. "I mean it, Hermione. Being with Ted was the best thing that ever happened to me. He made me come alive and opened my eyes to so many things. Sometimes I feel like I'm half dead without him. I don't want you to feel like that. If Lucius is the man who brings out the best in you, who makes you feel like you're going to explode with happiness, then you need to do whatever it takes to be with him. Forget the naysayers. They aren't important, beyond what you need to do to keep them contained."

"I…I really can't believe that you can stomach me being with him. I figured you would hate him."

She shrugged again. "He treats Narcissa and Draco well and I know he's an intelligent wizard. It was never him. It was his beliefs and what he was willing to do to enforce them."

Hermione nodded. That was exactly it. That was the line she had drawn in her mind so long ago.

"I will be talking to him, of course," Andromeda added with a grim determination. "To make sure he knows that I will dismember him if he ever harms you, and that he doesn't get a second chance."

Hermione laughed. "Did Ted ever get that warning?"

"Once," she replied smugly. "That was all he needed."

* * *

The banquet came and went. As Lucius suspected, the killer was spooked by his almost-capture. He wasn't a pro, but he wasn't stupid, either. Nonetheless, it had been interesting to go to the banquet Polyjuiced as a reporter. It had been even more interesting (and amusing) to watch Dawlish struggle to play Lucius Malfoy for the evening.

Perhaps the most satisfying thing was solidly elbowing Rita Skeeter several times while he jostled for the "scoop". He would have liked to do much more than that, for himself, for Narcissa, for Draco, and for Hermione, but he had to behave. Still, he couldn't resist casting a sticking charm on her heels. She had trailed toilet paper, cocktail napkins, and streamers around for the remainder of the evening – because if she didn't, she would stick to the floor and be unable to move. If only they made such charms for the mouth.

Overall, it was an uneventful evening. Lucius was able to make an obscenely large donation and express his apologies to Patrick's family. Dawlish was convincing, if a bit awkward, posing as him and was able to pass off any oddness to the strain of his recent injuries. It helped that Narcissa was at his side telling him who everyone was and what to say to them. That would fuel some rumors of them reuniting, but those would be easy enough to refute.

"So what's your different approach?" he'd asked the next morning via floo.

"Mandatory DNA samples from every single employee of the Critiquill. If we don't find him that way, then there will be DNA scans in place at the next event. If not there, we'll put DNA scans on all public floos and Apparition points. We'll get him, Lucius. We will."

He hadn't argued. He'd also accepted an emergency portkey for him to use in the event of another attack. Dawlish tried to convince him to allow 24-hour monitoring by the Aurors, but he just couldn't do it. He couldn't live his life with them watching. He thanked the Auror, took the mick a bit more about his turn as Lucius Malfoy ("How do you stand half those people?" Dawlish demanded once the evening was over), and then closed the floo.

* * *

Draco sighed as he emerged from the lift. Truly, the hours were the only bad part of this job. Every two weeks, he had to work a graveyard shift or a weekend shift. Neither were particularly populous times at the Ministry.

It was two in the morning on Tuesday. There were probably about eight people in the entirety of the Ministry and six of them were janitors. The other two were he and his partner – or so he thought.

He went into the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. After midnight everything was free to employees, as if compensating for the fact that they were still there after midnight. He took a sip and grimaced. Draco liked strong coffee but this was on par with mud. It would have to do.

As he turned, he noticed that he wasn't alone. There was a redhead at a table in the corner. She was sitting with a stack of folders and not paying attention to a single one. In fact, his keen eyes and ears informed him that she was crying.

Just as he noticed it, she looked up and saw him. Thus began the wiping of her eyes and nose and her attempt to get herself together. Draco cursed inwardly. If he didn't go over there and ask her if she was all right, he would just be an arsehole. He had his moments, but he had been raised, however paradoxically, to be a gentleman when it counted.

He shuffled over to her and set the coffee down on the table. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all," she replied in a nasal voice.

"What are you doing here so late?"

"Forensics. Double homicide in Kent."

"Lovely."

"Always is," she replied.

Draco sipped his coffee, comfortable in the ensuing silence. She was vaguely familiar to him. He'd probably gone to school with her, but her name escaped him. After long minutes in which she attempted to focus on her folders without success, he spoke up again. "Are you all right?"

She sniffled and looked up at him. "You're Draco Malfoy, aren't you?"

"Regretfully, yes." He said it with a small, self-deprecating smile. Nothing good ever followed that question, so he braced himself.

"Draco, did you ever have to apologize for something you weren't sorry for?"

"Doesn't everyone have to at some point?" he asked.

"I mean…something important."

He considered the question for a long time. Then he met her eyes and decided to be completely honest, since she had not gone running the second she figured out who he was. He had talked about this with Healer Newbery a lot; initially, it had been very difficult for him to deal with the simultaneous strain of his remorse and his anger at the way others perceived him and all that he'd been through.

"Sometimes you can't be sorry for things. Sometimes you had to do them to keep yourself or your family safe. There's nothing wrong with that." Draco licked his lips. "An action is just an action. It's the consequences that matter. So even if you can't regret the action, you can regret the consequence. It's…a bit of semantics, I guess, but it keeps me sane."

She sat there and blinked a few times. "You're exactly right. Exactly." Then she sprung into motion, gathering all her folders and stuffing them into a bag. "I've got to go. Thank you. You're brilliant."

It was Draco's turn to sit there and blink as she threw herself together and practically ran from the room.

* * *

Hermione sighed and rubbed her eyes. It was late; the harsh light of her lamp was more irritating than helpful. She supposed she had become too accustomed to candlelight.

Lucius had asked her to please stay away from the villa while the killer remained at large; Merlin only knew when he would try to strike again, and Lucius did not want her to become a target. He, too, had finally been persuaded to stay at the Manor. Initially, he had assured her that the culprit would be caught quickly. Her stay in her claustrophobic flat had since stretched to a little over two weeks.

She saw him on Sundays; he refused to miss their weekly dinner with Paolo and Elisabetta and Hermione was glad of it. Still, spending only two of sixteen days in his presence, and then only briefly, was challenging. It was only now that she realized how truly entangled they had become.

Last Sunday their deprivation had come to a head and they had to fight valiantly to keep from attacking one another in sheer lust when they got a moment alone. They lost the fight. Hermione had made an excuse that she left something at the villa and had to run back. She left and as soon as she was outside and sure of the fact that no one was watching, she apparated straight into the guestroom's loo. Simultaneously, Lucius sauntered off to use the facilities. Paolo and Elisabetta were gracious enough not to comment on the fact that he was in there for twenty minutes. Thank the lord for silencing charms.

She missed him. On the bright side, though, she had managed to catch up on her studies. A few more days of this and she would be ahead. She blew out a breath and frowned in malcontent.

It was amazing that she'd been able to concentrate at all. She was missing Lucius, worrying about what Marietta Edgecombe was doing, and still dejected about Harry. He'd helped her and she knew what he had witnessed had done something – she could see that much from the paleness in his face when he came to inform her of the attack and Lucius's hospitalization – but since then, there was only silence from his end.

She had considered flooing him a dozen times. She'd written a letter only to crumple it up and toss it away. Harry wasn't a person she could adequately communicate with in writing. She needed to see his face, hear his voice…she knew him so well that those things were like beacons, signs to be heeded and catalogued, each revealing how he really felt, how he wanted to feel, and the success or failure of his attempt to reconcile the two.

All she knew was that this silence couldn't continue without a resolution. If that resolution was that they were finished and he never wanted to speak to her again, that was fine. She just needed to know.

Hermione set her schoolbooks aside and pulled out a fresh piece of parchment. If she knew Harry, she would bet that the ambiguity was eating at him, too. He wouldn't turn down her invitation.

* * *

True to form, he didn't. He arrived two minutes before nine o'clock, freshly showered and shaved and looking quite fine in his Auror trainee robes. They ate first, making small talk about mutual friends and acquaintances. Then, as the plates were emptied, they fell into silence.

"Thank you for what you did, Harry," she whispered at last.

"It was my job," he responded.

"It wasn't your job to lie or get yourself in trouble. It meant a lot to me, and to Lucius."

Harry's lip twitched at the mention of the pureblood. "Hermione, I know you. I know you wouldn't just jump into this. There has to be an explanation. Tell me what happened between you two."

She breathed. If ever there was a time to be truthful, this was it. She would have to bend things a little to shelter secrets that were not ready for others to know…but she could at least give him some idea.

"I bumped into him in the Muggle world. He was working on a project and I assumed the worst. I cornered him and accused him of behaving like a Death Eater and forced him to show me the project." She looked down at the table. "I can't tell you what it was, but it was nothing bad. It was actually kind of wonderful."

"Why can't you tell me?"

"It's of a delicate nature. I promised him I wouldn't tell anyone." Harry chewed his lip, but said nothing. Hermione went on. "I accidentally took his wand with me after that encounter."

Harry's eyes widened. "Jesus, Hermione."

"I know. He came after me. He found me at my parents' house. I was terrified. But in the end, all that happened was that I returned his wand and we traded some insults." Bending the truth, indeed.

"What then?"

As with the ear incident, it was best to leave out the part about the Unbreakable Vow and ensuing mental connection. That would be all Harry needed to hear to condemn him.

"He came to see me at the Ministry, twice. He said that he needed assistance with his project, and I was the only one who could provide it."

"Why?"

"Because he was at an impasse and our interactions provided him with...inspiration."

Harry made a face, the same one she would have made if she was hearing this story from his point of view. It was a 'you've got to be kidding' face, half sarcastic eyeroll, half nauseated.

"And you told him to stuff it, I assume," Harry said.

"At first, yes. I told him that he would just have to deal with it and do it on his own like everyone else. That was when he told me about his curse."

"It's real, then?"

She resisted the urge to smack him on the arm. "Of course it's real!"

"Well, I wouldn't put it past him to make it up in order to get special treatment. That's what I thought when it came out in the papers."

Hermione bit down on her anger. Harry didn't know the circumstances and that was why he could speak so flippantly about it. "No, Harry, it's real. I've seen him take all the potions and spoken to his healer."

He licked his lips. "He was shouting something about his blood when we found him after the attack. He said it was contagious. I couldn't believe how upset he seemed - thought he was out of his gourd from blood loss, or something."

"He's deathly afraid of passing it on. He was trying to warn you."

"Hm." Harry fiddled with his fork. "So he dropped a sympathy card and you rushed to his aid?"

She gave him a dark look. "Harry, if you repeat what I'm about to say, I will hurt you in your sleep. Is that clear?"

He raised an eyebrow, but nodded.

"When he came to me, he was depressed and suicidal. He wanted to finish his project and die."

"So, like I said, you rushed to his aid."

Hermione made a sound of frustration and slapped her palm on the table. "Oh, Harry, don't act like you wouldn't do the same! You're only slightly less of a bleeding heart than me!"

He sat back in his chair, chastened by the blunt truth. He wasn't going to mention the times he had shouted at people to bugger off when they decided it would be brilliant to taunt Draco Malfoy while he completed his community service work after the war. When he raised his voice, people listened. It was one of the nice things about being who he was.

"All right. So you helped him."

"Yes." Hermione bit her lips. "I accompanied him to Italy."

Harry's brow drew in. "Wait a minute. You were with him that first trip in July?"

"Yes, and before you get angry, it was entirely professional." Right. Merlin, she was becoming too proficient at lying.

"I hope it was," he replied, an edge to his voice.

"I learned a lot about him. He had muggle friends as a boy, did you know that?"

"No."

"We…sort of existed, working on the project and annoying one another, until I got sick."

"Sick? What kind of sick?"

"Heat stroke. He took care of me. Stayed up all night and worked himself ragged to make sure I was okay. After that things changed."

Harry regarded her with a wary incredulity. "What do you mean?"

"We…became friends." She licked her lips. "Everything happened so fast. Before I knew it, we kissed. It scared the hell out of me, Harry."

"As well it should have," he muttered.

"I rejected him. I was so scared. I didn't think about the impact it would have on him." Hermione sighed, regret filling her at the memory of it. "Around the same time, he received word that his mother had passed away."

Harry's face flickered with a trace of sympathy. The loss of parents would always be a sensitive subject for him. It didn't matter how long a person had been able to spend with them; he still felt their pain, perhaps even more so when they'd had time to really know their progenitors.

"So he had a rough go of it, huh," he said softly.

"Yes. It was the last straw for him. And it's no wonder…everything he knew was turned upside down, he was lethally cursed, his son hated him, his wife was divorcing him, I rejected him, and then that…" That, which had hurt him so badly for reasons that she couldn't explain to Harry…

"Did he try to…?"

"Kill himself? Yes." She closed her eyes, remembering the way he had looked. The terrible emptiness in his voice, the way the tears evaporated right out of his eyes, and the scald of his hands as he tried to push her away…with the sunflowers wilting all around them…Hermione shivered.

Harry's eyes were wide and interested now in spite of the fact that he was obviously trying not to care. "What happened?"

"Did you know that if a wizard becomes extremely emotionally unstable, his own magic can kill him?"

To her surprise, Harry nodded. "Elemental magic. I heard Dumbledore and Pomfrey talking about it after Sirius died. I felt awful, but never that awful."

Hermione looked at him, wondering what form his elemental magic took. Air and wind and sky, perhaps, since he was so good on a broom. Or maybe he was fire, just like Lucius. A sudden vision of Harry falling apart as Lucius had rocked her, and she cringed, squeezing her eyes shut. She had thought about Harry's mental health many times during those trying years, but realizing what could have happened to him was frightening, indeed.

"I was never even close, Hermione," he said softly, somehow knowing what she was thinking about. "I had two best friends and a lot of great people to keep me sane."

He didn't appear surprised when she launched herself at him. Nor was he stingy with the ensuing embrace. Harry hugged her tightly, even placing a light kiss in her hair.

"Hermione," he whispered after a long moment, "I know you. I know that you're smarter than 99% of the people in this world and that I wouldn't be here if not for you. I've been wrong about people many times, but you have better instincts. Your judgment is usually right even if I don't want to accept it. If you see something in him, if you've found a part of him that's worthy of loving, then I just have to accept it." His body tensed. "I just want to know that you're safe. That he won't hurt you. I have no problem trusting you, but it's much harder to trust him."

"He swore not to hurt me," she said through the lump that had formed in her throat. "And he never has. If anything, I've hurt him."

It was news to Harry that a man like Malfoy could be hurt. He had always loomed so large and threatening in his mind. Perhaps half of the trouble was that he just couldn't picture Lucius having any emotions at all, least of all love…love for someone he'd once despised. But hatred based on ideology was easier to cure than hatred based on some grievous slight. Harry knew that.

"Maybe you should talk to him," Hermione said tentatively.

He pulled back from their hug at last, giving her a look that said she was crazy. "I don't think that's the best idea."

"I think it's a great idea, actually."

"Hermione, I sent the man to prison and all but ruined him. Please explain to me what logic you're using."

Truth be told, she wasn't using any logic, but she knew that if she asked Lucius to please talk to him, he would. He might not be entirely civil and would hate the entire experience. Yet she knew that he wouldn't deny her anything.

"I just…I just think you need to see how he's changed. I think that's why this is so hard for you. You still think he's that man from the Department of Mysteries." She stepped away from him, resisting the urge to pace. "Believe me, Harry, I looked for ulterior motives in him for weeks and weeks and sometimes I still catch myself doing it. It's hard to let go. But the man I've come to know…he's nothing like he was. Hardly even the same person."

Harry was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "I'm sorry I said those things to you, Hermione. I was just…angry and confused."

"I'm sorry I lied to you."

A slight smile curled his lips. "Not sorry you slapped me?"

She snorted. "You deserved that."

"I guess I did." He stood up and straightened his robes.

"Are you leaving? Don't you want to hear the rest of the story?"

He shook his head. "I don't need to." He reached out to twist a stray curl around his finger, an affectionate gesture. "I know what it's like to spend a lot of time with a person when emotions are running high and just…tip over into wondering. I was too much of a coward to act on it."

She was bewildered for a short moment. "What do you--" And then it dawned on her. He was talking about that last year, the horcrux hunt, when they'd been stuck in that tent together for weeks on end. When it was just the two of them, after Ron had left, it had truly seemed like they were the only two people in the world – or in each other's world, at least. It had occurred to her as they both lay awake but pretended to sleep that they could find comfort together and no one would ever know. Not Ron, not Ginny, not anyone. She had dismissed the thought quickly, admonishing herself for letting her mind wander from their current predicament. Harry had evidently not dismissed it with the same speed.

She was a little surprised at the confession. While she was flattered, Hermione couldn't help but make a face. It would have been so awkward! But, she thought as she watched a sheepish smile tug at his lips, maybe not, because she did love him. His hand cupped her cheek and she stared up at him, unsure of what to do.

"Good on Lucius," Harry murmured. "He must be a lot braver than me."

"I'm not sure brave is the word," she replied with a small smile.

Harry leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "Thank you for explaining." And then he was out the door and gone, leaving Hermione to feel slightly bewildered, but deliriously happy that they had reached some kind of truce.

* * *

The next day there was an arrest. Dawlish's surprise DNA tests at the Critiquill paid off. Charles Peppard Bartholomew, one of the men who had reviewed Lucius's book, was a match to the sample they'd attained from the attack. They had dragged him out of the office immediately. Oddly, the man complied in absolute bewilderment; he swore up and down that he had no idea what they were talking about and he'd never attacked anyone.

Now Lucius was at the Ministry to pick him out of a lineup. He thought it rather pointless since he'd been Polyjuiced during the attack. How was he supposed to recognize him when he'd never actually seen him? Protocol was protocol, though.

He looked at the five men arranged in the room before him. Lucius frowned. The man who attacked him had been entirely covered and he had only been able to observe small details. None of the men looked familiar to him, except perhaps eternal law-breaker Mundungus Fletcher standing at spot number three.

"Dawlish," he said, "when a person is Polyjuiced, do they take on all the characteristics of that other person?"

"What characteristics do you mean?" the Auror asked. His face was tense with concentration; he, too, was studying the men in the lineup.

"Well, things like gait and hand dominance." Lucius swept his eyes over the five men again. "He was covered up. The only identifiers I have are things like that, and if they are attributable to Polyjuice, I don't see how I can identify him."

"Truthfully, I don't know. That's a better question for a Potions Master."

Lucius sighed. "Can you have them walk? Except number three, I know it's not him."

Dawlish gave the order. One by one, the four remaining men walked across the small space. Lucius watched closely. None of them were pigeon-toed. He asked for their hand dominance, which Dawlish had them demonstrate by writing a sentence on parchment. All of them were right-handed. His attacker had been left-handed.

As a last-ditch effort, Lucius asked that they be made to speak. He'd supplied a sentence, one that the man had spoken to him while they were in the factory. None of the four men seemed bothered by the sentence and he knew why; none of them had spoken it.

"It isn't any of these men," he said at last.

Dawlish rubbed a hand over his face in exasperation. "Come on, Lucius. Take some more time. Think about it. Don't rush."

"I mean it. The man who attacked me is not standing in there. And if he is, how on Earth am I supposed to identify him when he was someone else during our altercation?"

"His blood matches, Lucius. He's in there."

"You can't lead me like that, Dawlish, if his attorney gets wind of it--" Lucius started to caution.

"I know," he snapped irritably. "Damn it, I just wanted an open-and-shut case."

"Well, you can use the blood match to keep him here, can't you? Until you get a warrant for Veritaserum or investigative Legilimency?"

"Yes." The Auror looked highly put out. "I hate Polyjuice Potion!"

"That makes two of us. May I go?"

Dawlish sighed. "Yes, Lucius, you may go."

* * *

"My instincts were right," he said later that week, when he and Hermione had a moment alone in the kitchen of Paolo and Elisabetta's house.

"About Bartholomew?" she asked in a low, conspiratorial tone.

"Yes. They court-ordered him to submit to Veritaserum and he had an alibi for the day of the attack. It checks out. He's not the one."

"Then how did you get his blood all over you?" Hermione protested over her wine glass.

"That is the part that nobody can figure out."

She set the wine glass down and rubbed her temples. "This killer is smarter than we thought."

"It seems that way."

Hermione groaned and leaned into his chest, embracing him. "I just want him to be caught so I can stop worrying and shag you whenever I want."

His hand strayed down her back and over her bum. "I can make arrangements for you to come to the Manor."

"Ask me in another week and I might say yes."

"Ah. Your libido must truly be in an uproar."

"As if yours isn't."

His large hand stroked over her hair and he said, "Soon, Hermione. They'll catch him soon."

* * *

Early the next week, Lucius found himself in Diagon Alley, about 30 minutes early for his lunch date with Draco. He meandered into Flourish and Blotts. He had been so focused on writing recently that he had not read a good book in some time. This might also be a good opportunity to buy something Hermione would like. He did miss her terribly and appreciated how patient she'd been through all of this.

His own patience was growing short. He missed the villa. Life at the Manor was vastly better now that he was on good terms with its other occupants, but his life wasn't centered there anymore.

He sorted through the books in the shop with some interest. It was said that imitation was the sincerest form of flattery; he wondered how true that was as he browsed a display of "fictional autobiographies". It seemed that he had started a trend. Lucius rolled his eyes and was about to turn and walk away when someone knocked into the display from behind. Realizing that a stack of books were about to tilt directly onto his head (again), Lucius raised an arm to shield himself.

"Protego!" The books rained down around him, but not a single one made contact. It was a quick and very effective shielding charm.

Lucius turned, ready to thank his savior. He found himself staring down the business end of a wand. A wand that was very familiar, held in the man's left hand. His heart stopped.

Then, a quick moment later, it restarted. So did his brain. He hoped his face had not gone too white. There had been other times when the uncontrollable effects of his nervous system had given him away.

"Thank you," he said, his voice level. "What brings you to Flourish and Blotts, Mr. Pound?"


	30. Chapter 30

"Not a problem," the graying man replied, jovial. "I came to see what people are buying and what they aren't, so that I might get an idea what to review in the next issue."

Lucius contemplated him. He'd met the man in person once, at a mutual gathering with Dawlish to plan their strategy. The Critiquill's creator and lead editor was a likeable man. Perhaps too likeable.

"I'm sure you'll find something; there are dozens of new books out," Lucius said neutrally. "I appreciate your assistance just now. If you'll excuse me, though, I must meet my son for lunch."

Pound nodded with a smile. Then, he waved that wand again to clean up the fallen books. Lucius walked the other way, mind racing. He very nearly trod over a small child that ran across his path. Fortunately, he managed to step aside in time and a second later a flustered young witch appeared to reclaim her rambunctious toddler.

Then he was out the door and on the street. His breath was coming quickly. That wand... that had been the one the killer held, he was sure of it. It was imprinted into his memory. Pound held it the same way, wrist up rather than down. The voice didn't trigger alarm bells in his head, but speaking to someone casually in a book shop did not equate to threatening them. He knew from personal experience that the voice one used when trying to coerce or intimidate was vastly different from one's everyday tone.

The information was conflicting. They already knew the man who had attacked him was Polyjuiced as Pound. Yet, would he have gone so far as to have Pound's wand? It wasn't a generic, as the maple wood had been. It was a custom and probably one-of-a-kind wand, as Lucius's was prior to its destruction at the hands of the Dark Lord.

If only Severus was still alive. He would have known the answer to the question Lucius had posed to Dawlish, about whether or not Polyjuice caused the user to take on all of the intended's characteristics. Right now it was very important.

But aside from that, it was the wand that troubled him. The extra wand had seemed so obvious at the time. Any criminal might use that caution. Now, it occurred to him that perhaps it was a necessity, for if the attacker was Pound, his wand would be too easily identified.

But how? And why? The evidence didn't stack up. Lucius sighed and stepped into the small bistro Draco had chosen. He was still fifteen minutes early, but he had plenty to think about.

* * *

He was distracted all through lunch and Draco definitely noticed. Lucius explained it away by telling a partial truth: he was preoccupied by the Netherwood case and wondering why the killer had not been caught. Draco accepted that and patiently led the discussion.

He learned that Narcissa had at last explained to her son her aversion to mind healers. Then, last weekend, she accompanied him to see Healer Newbery. By Draco's accounts, Narcissa had found it to be challenging, but undeniably beneficial. She wanted to go back and was, like Lucius, considering her own mind healer.

Lucius asked how Draco was doing. He couldn't claim that he paid attention to every word that came out of his son's mouth after that, but he could tell by the way he rambled on, his face alight, that he was happy. What a difference a few months made.

"Father?"

"Hm?"

"Did you hear what I just said?"

"Er..."

A flash of annoyance crossed his son's face. "I _said_ that I think something might be going on between Mum and that Auror, the one who's on the case."

"Dawlish?"

"Yes."

Lucius frowned. "Why do you say that?"

"He's always at the house. And considering what little progress has been made on the case, I'm sure they're not discussing it."

"Have you seen anything?"

It was Draco's turn to frown. "Well, no, but I just get the feeling..."

"I don't doubt you." Lucius drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Interesting."

"Interesting?" Draco repeated. He looked confused. "You aren't mad?"

"Why would I be?"

Draco opened his mouth, but quickly shut it again. He looked down at his plate. Ah. Lucius understood in that moment. Draco had still been holding out some small hope that his parents would reconcile. He didn't realize that they already had.

"Draco," he said, "your mother and I are finally where we were meant to be. We function best as your parents and as friends. We tried for almost twenty-five years to be something else. It isn't meant to be."

His son sighed. "I just want the both of you to be happy."

"I am very happy, Draco. Once your mother finds someone, I'm sure she will be, too."

Draco wrinkled his nose. "But an Auror?"

"Well, there's no accounting for taste, I suppose... after all, your mother married _me_," Lucius pointed out with a smirk.

Draco laughed, and with a shake of his head, he let the subject drop.

* * *

He had too many things to think about. The encounter with Pound had filled his head near to bursting. Now, the tidbit about Narcissa and Dawlish had given him a headache. Lucius rubbed his temples and sighed. He had to make sense of it all.

His first trip would be to the Apothecary. He would talk to the Potions master or mistress there and get a straight answer about Polyjuice. Then he would know if he really had to be suspicious of Pound or not. If the answer was yes, then he would be going to see Dawlish anyway.

He didn't know what he would say to the man, but it was safe to admit that he felt some degree of protectiveness toward Narcissa. He wasn't so nave as to think that she had never been with any man before him, but he was almost certain that she had never been in love. The potential for a man to toy with her heart now was very high. If Dawlish wasn't serious about her, it could end in heartbreak. Narcissa didn't need any more of that.

Of course, Draco's suspicion could be just that - a suspicion. He was protective of his mother since the war and bore his father's ingrained mistrust of law enforcement, for he knew how easily it could be corrupted. He had seen countless Death Eaters infiltrate the Auror ranks. Dawlish's attention to his mother would be very unwelcome.

Though, most men could hardly be blamed for paying attention to Narcissa. She was beautiful. No one had ever dared to hit on her when she was with Lucius, but now that she wasn't, he would be surprised if she could walk ten feet in public without eyes following her. A few bold men might even approach her. Lucius tried not to smile at the thought of how she would react. Narcissa was very much about the more staid and traditional methods of romance. Then again, if the right man came along, he knew there was enough fire in her to throw all that out the window.

The more he thought about it, the more he hoped that she could find someone who lit that fire. Hermione had certainly lit his. Romance was wonderful, but passion trumped it.

* * *

Marietta sat at an outdoor cafe beneath a heat lamp watching the world go by. They had given her the day off today since she had essentially worked non-stop on that double homicide for almost a week. It had been a messy crime scene and there was a lot of evidence to process. The Minister had praised her for a job well done and she accepted the day off without struggle.

She was smiling today. Ever since her late night conversation with Draco Malfoy, she had felt all right. Some residual guilt had always lived in her when it came to the events of Hogwarts; however, it had been resolutely buried beneath her rage about what Granger had done to her. After Granger's explanation of the countercurse, that guilt had welled up in force, not to mention a fair share of anger and self-loathing. In the end, she had done it to herself.

Cho had said it best after the altercation that had ended her fledgling relationship with Harry Potter. The Asian girl accompanied her back to the dormitory, where she picked up her hairbrush and stroked it through her hair in silence until she gathered her thoughts.

_ "You know, Marietta," she said, "my family was under pressure, too."_

_ "Cho..." _

_ "Do you think the Ministry is right after all of this? You've met Harry. He isn't a liar. What's going on here has nothing to do with improving Hogwarts. They want to shut him up, and all of his supporters, because they're afraid of the truth. Surely you can see that!"_

_ "That isn't the point!"_

_ "It's exactly the point! If war comes, do you think your parents would want you to just give in to the enemy the second they made a threat?"_

_ "There isn't going to be any war, Cho," she responded coldly._

_ She knew her mistake the moment it came out of her mouth. Cho's face wobbled. "Oh," she said softly. "So Cedric died accidentally, did he? And the whole setup - Harry's name was smuggled into the Goblet of Fire for nothing? And how about the attacks at the World Cup? The Death Eaters are just kicking up now for nostalgia's sake? There's going to be a war, Marietta." She slammed her hairbrush down on her bedside table. "And when it comes, I'll know where to find you - cowering in some dark hole!" _

That had been the end of her friendship with Cho. She'd requested a transfer to a different room and it had been granted within a few days. The other girls in the dormitory hadn't a clue what had gone on between them and didn't pry. Unfortunately, none of them were as friendly with her as Cho, and she'd spent the rest of the year - indeed, the rest of her Hogwarts career - relatively friendless. When even Luna Lovegood wouldn't talk to you, you knew you were at the bottom of the Ravenclaw food chain.

The worst part was that Cho was right. She hadn't returned to Hogwarts for seventh year. When the war broke out, she had gone to South Africa with her parents. All the battles, the ups and downs, had been very distant, indeed. Cho hadn't been so cowardly. She had fought in the Battle at Hogwarts. She had seen Voldemort, the wizard who took her first love away from her, fall.

It made her feel very small. However, those thoughts had also given her the first lead on what she could be sorry for. Three nights ago, she had sat in the bathtub and said to the humid air, "I'm sorry, Cho. I'm sorry I hurt you, sorry I ruined our friendship and whatever you had with Harry. I'm sorry."

She meant every word, and when she got out, she looked in the mirror. Maybe it was her imagination, but it seemed like some of the scarring beneath her right eye had receded. The next day she repeated the process, soaking the essence of blood and lab sterility out of her in the tub.

"I'm sorry, Harry Potter, for being one of the people who doubted you when you were right all along."

And she definitely wasn't imagining it. The splotches across her left cheek were gone. Last night she had slid into the bath with a buzz of excitement.

"I'm sorry to everyone who got hurt in the Department of Mysteries. I'm sorry I interfered with your training so that you weren't ready when you got there to fight the people you knew were a threat even if no one else, including me, accepted it."

She had no idea whether or not extra sessions of Dumbledore's Army would have changed the outcome of that night, but she did know that Neville Longbottom's nose had been broken, and so had Ginny Weasley's ankle. Hermione Granger had almost died. And, the rumors said, Harry Potter had lost someone very dear to him. She could be sorry for all that, even if it was, at best, an indirect consequence of her actions.

But Hermione Granger knew her magic; she'd said that the spell could be duped in that way. Marietta had never felt as much relief as she did last night, staring at herself in the mirror. For the first time in years, clear, pristine skin stared back across her cheeks, freckled and flushed from the hot bathwater. There was still some scarring on her nose, but already this was such an improvement.

She needed one more apology. That was why she was here, thinking over a cup of fragrant jasmine tea. The apology to Cho had been obvious. Harry Potter, too. The third had been less blatant, and she was drawing a blank on the fourth. What else had happened as a result of that one stupid decision?

Marietta jumped slightly as another person suddenly took the seat across from her. Blinking, she quickly glanced at the other tables. Two were free; why was this person insisting upon sitting with her?

"Marietta Edgecombe?" the woman asked.

"Yes..." she replied with some trepidation.

The dark-haired witch took out her wand. "Muffliato."

"What does that do?" Marietta asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. She'd never heard of that particular charm.

"Garbles your conversation so those around you can't overhear it. Very useful." The witch crossed her arms over her chest. "Particularly since I am here to have a serious conversation with you."

Marietta looked around once more. No one gave any indication that they thought it was strange that another witch was sitting with her, or that they'd noticed at all. She turned back to the other woman. "I'm sorry, but who are you?"

"That's not important. What I want to know is why you are trying to ruin Hermione Granger's relationship with her significant other."

Marietta studied her. She was older, but not old, and rather pretty. "Her significant other?" she repeated. "You mean Lucius Malfoy?"

"That is who I mean, yes," she responded in clipped tones.

Marietta opened her mouth, but realized that she didn't know what to say. She wasn't trying to upset Granger's relationship... was she? No, not with _him_. It was her relationship with everyone else that it would ruin.

"I haven't done anything," she said at last.

"And it makes you feel very powerful, doesn't it, to hold something over their heads? To watch them squirm?"

Marietta was unprepared for the malice in the other woman's voice and the coldness in her eyes. "It... it isn't about power."

"Then what is it about, Marietta?"

_Revenge_. She knew that was the truth. "She did a rotten thing to me."

The other witch sat in silence for a long minute. Then she leaned forward. "Are you really telling me that you never once thought that _you_ did a rotten thing, betraying all your classmates? Nevermind that you had the means to fix it all along..."

"And what she's doing isn't rotten? She's a Muggle-born sleeping with a pureblood supremacist, a former Death Eater, a person who tried to kill her friends!"

"Oh, the politics of the war suddenly matter to you? It comes a little late, don't you think, considering that you spent the entirety of the conflict safe and comfortable in Johannesburg?"

Marietta felt her face coloring. This woman wasn't the first person to bring that up. Her family, like all who had fled the fighting, were no longer taken as seriously as they had once been. They were viewed as cowards, too afraid to take a stand for one side or the other - though she supposed that the ones who had sided with Voldemort were in worse straits.

"I had no choice," she said through her teeth. "I was just a kid."

"So were many of the people who fought on the front-lines, Hermione Granger included."

They sat in a frosty silence. Marietta chewed her lip. It was definitely a point of soreness for her; she knew that even if she had been given the choice, she would have remained hidden away in South Africa. Ravenclaws were not known for their courage.

The woman's face suddenly softened, just a flash of empathy. "I am not here to harm you. I'm just here to make you understand what you're doing. There is vengeance, and then there is cruelty."

"What she did to me wasn't cruel?" Marietta snapped.

"It was petty, but not cruel. She gave you the means to fix it. Will you be able to do the same when all the friendships in her life are ruined?"

The redhead sat, fuming. No. There was no taking it back. If she revealed Granger and Malfoy, the shunning would be instantaneous. Her friends would renounce her with the vehemence that all Gryffindors possessed, and his family and associates would do the same. The strain of it would probably ruin them.

"Hermione gave you what you wanted. She told you the countercurse. By the looks of things, it's working." The dark-haired witch steepled her fingers and thought for a moment. "The two of you are even. If you reveal them, you are the instigator, and you know as well as I how clever she can be when her back is against the wall."

Marietta recognized the vague threat. Granger had made no move to do anything to her, but if pressed she would defend herself. She had proven that already.

The woman made to stand up, gathering her cloak about her. "Bear in mind, also, Miss Edgecombe, that those who stand in the way of love often lack it. How can you ever expect to find the love of your life if you spend all your time analyzing DNA samples and trying to ruin the relationships of others?"

She turned to leave. Marietta couldn't help but snort. It was a sad, derisive sound.

"Honestly, who would want me? I've looked like a freak all these years."

The woman turned back to her, her face thoughtful. "I know people who were torn up by werewolves, who lost an arm or a leg, even people who have lost their minds... all of whom are in deeply loving relationships. They don't let their differences get in the way." Now she looked openly sympathetic. "But if you are afraid of yourself, why shouldn't others be afraid, too?"

Marietta sat numbly, the words repeating over and over in her mind. The other witch dug in her pocket, laid some galleons on the table, and then strode away.

* * *

Draco took his time getting back to the Ministry. He was on the second shift today and still had about an hour before he started work. Wandering around Diagon Alley was mindlessly comforting; he liked to stop by the Quidditch supply store to see all the new equipment and marvel at how sophisticated it became with each passing year. After that, it would be a quick stop at Flourish and Blotts. His social calendar wasn't exactly exploding and he had been using books to keep himself busy lately.

The Quidditch store was packed nearly wall to wall. He quickly gave up on it, detouring towards the book shop. As he held the door open for an exiting couple, someone tapped him on the shoulder.

"Draco Malfoy?"

He steeled himself and then turned. "Yes?"

The man facing him was a jovial sort, short and a bit overweight with white hair. He smiled. He reminded Draco a little bit of Horace Slughorn.

"Excellent, I thought it might be you. I had the pleasure of bumping into your father earlier and he mentioned he was to meet with you."

Right. Draco controlled the odd glance he wanted to give the man and got to the point. "Can I help you with something?"

"Possibly. Could we retreat to a less chaotic area?"

He did have a point. They were standing directly in the doorway of the book store, obstructing access and egress. Without answering, Draco stepped away, heading for a small outdoor caf nearby.

He took a seat. Just before the other man sat, he could have sworn he saw that redhead from the Ministry. A moment later, though, she was gone; he realized it could have been anyone. Draco shrugged.

"Now I can make a proper introduction. I am Aloysius Pound, editor-in-chief of the Critiquill magazine."

Draco shook his outstretched hand. He'd heard of the magazine; his father had mentioned it offhand during one of their conversations about the Netherwood murder investigation. "You already know who I am," he offered, still uncertain as to why this man had approached him.

"I was thinking, Mr. Malfoy, after I spoke with your father..." he tapped a finger on the table, "have you ever considered writing a book?"

"No," he replied succinctly, quashing the urge to laugh. He could pen a coherent essay, but that was about as far as his writing talents went.

"I ask because it seems that right now, memoirs are very popular. Have you ever had a chance to tell your story, Draco?"

"What's to tell?" he murmured.

"Growing up in one of the richest, purest families in the whole of the wizarding world? Being recruited to join the Death Eaters at sixteen whether you wanted to or not? Surviving a divisive war? Indeed, what's to tell?" Pound replied.

"I'm not going to disparage my family in print," Draco shot back coldly. "So if that's what you're hoping for, you'd best move on."

"Certainly not," Pound amended. "I only seek to give you a chance to tell your story to the public on your own terms. People are forever putting words in your mouth, skewing the truth, aren't they?"

He frowned. That was true enough. No one had ever heard his side of the story, save for the Wizengamot and the few witnesses at the post-war trial. Everything had been closed to the public. Rumors flourished, of course - in the absence of a definitive statement from him, they were what defined him these days.

"Just think about it." Pound pushed a business card across the table. "If you'd like to discuss it more, the card doubles as a Portkey. You just need to hold onto it and say memoir' and it will bring you to my office."

Draco just looked at the card, so stark and white against the metal table. Pound pushed back his chair with a scrape and nodded.

"Good day, Draco."

* * *

The Potions master, a tall Indian man, had been very helpful. He'd assured Lucius that Polyjuice did not cause the drinker to take on every single characteristic of their target; just because you were _in_ a person's body did not mean you knew how to behave exactly like them. The best Polyjuice impersonators took months to observe their target, picking up on little mannerisms so that they could imitate them later.

By nature of working at the same establishment as Pound, it was possible that Bartholomew _could_ have made all those observations. Lucius frowned. That didn't change the fact that the man was continuously claiming his innocence. He swore up and down that he had not at any point brewed or ingested Polyjuice. He also vehemently denied any involvement in Netherwood's death or Lucius's attack.

Dawlish had mentioned that they were going to question him under Veritaserum. Lucius picked up his pace, heading for the Ministry. That had to happen today.

* * *

Hermione yawned. Her professor had cancelled class for the day, leaving her and her classmates to study the spinal cord on their own. It was not the most stimulating of topics; she was fighting sleep, and the warm bundle of Crookshanks in her lap didn't help.

Just as she was drifting off, her book open to diagrams of vertebrae and spinal tracts, a sharp knock sounded at her door. Hermione jumped. Crookshanks meowed his displeasure at the sudden movement. She smiled; he would be quite put out, then, when she got up to answer the door.

It was Andromeda. Hermione hugged her and invited her in. After a cup of tea and the usual questions about Teddy, the older witch got to the point.

"I spoke to her."

"Marietta?"

She nodded. "She's... a bit of a sad girl, isn't she?"

Hermione nodded in return. She'd thought about it; Marietta was _lonely_. Smart, but friendless. Marietta was what Hermione might have been if she had never befriended Harry and Ron.

"The countercurse is working," Andromeda continued.

"So she does know how to apologize."

"It seems that way."

They sat in silence for a moment. Hermione scratched between her cat's ears. "I guess the real question is whether or not she knows how to forgive."

"Indeed." She paused for a moment, as if she was not sure of her next statement. "Do you?"

* * *

The walls of her flat were impersonal. They always had been, but she never noticed until now, when she stared at them in utter confusion. An angry part of her wanted to mail her forensics report to the Daily Prophet and fuck all the consequences. The rest of her was awash in unfamiliar emotions.

Marietta got up and staggered to the loo. It didn't matter that she had showered only six hours earlier. A bath would put order to her thoughts. The hot water always did.

She didn't look at her reflection in the mirror as she undressed. She knew what she would see. Frizzy red hair, fair skin with freckles, blue-green eyes, delicate collar bones, breasts that she had always found a bit too small, a mostly-flat stomach with an outie belly button, slim hips, skinny legs, and high-arched dancer's feet. A Muggle man in South Africa had told her that she should have been a ballerina. She didn't agree; a dancer needed grace and she had never considered herself particularly graceful.

Graceful women had friends. They didn't work in forensics, spending their days hunched over blood samples and pulling DNA from pubic hairs. They went to clubs and had boyfriends or girlfriends or both. They certainly didn't hide from themselves, and in doing so, hide from everyone else.

She climbed into the tub, sinking down into the froth of raspberry scented bubbles. The hot shock of the water dashed everything from her mind for a blessed moment. Then, once she was used to it, it all came flooding back.

Quite suddenly, she knew what her last apology had to be. Tears sprung to her eyes. She drew her knees up to her chest and tried not to sob.

"I'm sorry, Marietta, for isolating you. For burning your bridges and then being too afraid to build new ones. For being such a bloody coward..."

* * *

Hermione re-read her words. She was reluctant... but if this was what it took, then she was glad to do it.

_Marietta,_

_I'm sorry about the curse. It was never meant to last._

_Tabula rasa?_

_~Hermione_

She sent it, not really expecting anything in return. But about eight hours later, when she was once more dozing off over her anatomy and physiology textbook, there was a tap at the window. Hermione let the owl in and relieved it of its sheet of parchment.

_Hermione,_

_I destroyed the forensics report. It's not worth risking my job, the one thing I'm any good at, and you gave me what I wanted._

_Sorry I told Potter. I hope he'll come around._

_Tabula Rasa._

_~Marietta_

A smile spread across Hermione's face. They were safe. She grabbed for a sheet of parchment to tell Lucius but quickly realized that it was late. He would be in bed already and leaving a personal letter to linger until he woke was like asking for someone else to read it. She would send the note in the morning.

* * *

Little did she know, he was awake. He'd been waiting up for a letter from Dawlish. He visited the Auror after the trip to the Apothecary to tell him what he knew and to insist that the Veritaserum be administered as soon as possible. Lucius could tell that Dawlish was dubious about the whole thing, but he acquiesced.

And here it was. The owl flew through the open window. He reached for the bird eagerly and gave it the treats he'd stashed on the desk for when it arrived.

_Lucius,_

_Another wrinkle in the investigation - Bartholomew's telling the truth. He didn't attack you, he didn't murder Netherwood, and he neither brewed nor ingested Polyjuice. Unless he's found some way to dupe the Veritaserum, he's not our man. I'm starting to think he's as much a victim as you and Netherwood._

_I think your instinct about Pound is a fair one, but I can't bring him in on a hunch alone. We need a reason. To arrest him a second time for the same charge would invite ridicule and litigation._

The next paragraph of the letter was written in invisible ink. Wondering what he was about to read, Lucius took out his wand and pressed the tip to his finger. Though he was far from a fan of bloodletting, especially in light of his current condition, the recipient's blood was the only thing that could render this type of ink visible. Once touched to the paper, the words fanned out, tinted red.

_Now, you mentioned that you encountered Pound in Flourish and Blotts. If you were to perhaps twist the circumstances and tell me that he hexed you in the book shop (details are unimportant), I would have enough to justify an arrest. I don't like to skim the law like this, but perhaps a little Veritaserum will solve the mystery and prevent anyone else from being hurt. And I know you have the lawyers to shoot down a lawsuit if we're wrong, whom you would most certainly lend to your co-conspirator, yes?_

Lucius released a snort of laughter. Sometimes he was a bad influence. Or perhaps Dawlish was a little more devious than people thought. The rest of the letter went on in regular ink.

_Contact my office via Floo in the morning and we'll discuss our options. Give my regards to the family._

_Dawlish_

Give his regards, indeed. That was new. Perhaps Draco was right about the Auror and his ex-wife. With a sigh, Lucius placed the letter in the fireplace and fanned the cinders with a spell. Sleep would be elusive tonight, but he would try. Perhaps a nightcap was in order to coax him into slumber.

* * *

Draco was in the kitchen, munching on something he ought not be eating after midnight. Lucius said nothing and padded over to the liquor cabinet. He couldn't preach when he was relying on alcohol to fall asleep.

"Rough night, Father?"

"Can't sleep," he replied, measuring out a finger of very strong whiskey.

"You should have a go at my gym. That'll put you to bed." Draco smirked around his massive ice cream.

Lucius rolled his eyes. He'd peeked inside the so-called gym; it had dozens of machines in it that Lucius couldn't even begin to know how to operate. It was unlikely that he'd emerge in one piece.

"You're undoing all your hard work with that," he pointed out, gesturing at the dessert. Draco merely shrugged. Lucius knew it was useless; there was no cure for the Malfoy sweet tooth.

He stood across from his son and downed the alcohol, grimacing as it burned. He couldn't fathom how people made this a habit.

"Oh," Draco said, gesturing with his spoon, "you know that Pound guy you mentioned?"

Lucius blinked. "Aloysius Pound?"

"Yeah, the editor of that fancy magazine."

"What about him?"

"He came up to me today." Draco dug in his pocket and produced a white paper rectangle. "Said that I should write a memoir--"

And then, inexplicably, his son was gone.

* * *

He felt the tug of the Portkey and cursed. Draco had forgotten that memoir' was the password. Son of a bitch. He was going to appear in Pound's office after hours and probably be stuck there until it opened.

When the swirling, compressing sensation stopped, another one rapidly flooded in - the feeling of landing right on his tailbone. Draco saw stars and barely bit back his cry of pain. Hell, that hurt! He wouldn't be able to sit for a week.

What kind of office was this, anyway? The floor was concrete. The ceiling soared high above him, crisscrossed with bulkheads. This was a warehouse, and he was stuck deep within it in a nondescript aisle lined with boxes.

At least he thought it was an aisle. Upon standing and limping about to try to find its end, he met only more boxes. Further exploration told him that he was quite literally boxed in'; he had a rectangle of space, perhaps twenty yards by five, and was hedged in by boxes that were stacked nearly to the ceiling with a stability that only magic could manage.

"What the hell?" he murmured. He wasn't claustrophobic so his quarters didn't immediately alarm him. However, Draco was unnerved by the silence of the building around him. There wasn't a soul in this place. Who knew how big it was? How often workers made it to this corner of the building? There was no loo, no food, and no water. If left here long enough, he could die.

What was Pound playing at? Why would he do this? This had to be some kind of mix up. What reason did he have...

Draco exhaled. All of that was unimportant. What was important was that he found a way out. He sat, then thought better of it, and turned onto his stomach to think.

* * *

He was left to stare at a bowl of melting ice cream. Lucius's glass slipped from his hand. It shattered all over the floor and a stray shard nicked across his shin, but he barely noticed.

Pound had targeted Draco, seeking to raise the stakes. It was undeniable; Pound was the killer. He didn't know how, he didn't know why, but he did know the truth when it slapped him in the face.

* * *

Dawlish fell out of bed when the Howler detonated. Good God, who the hell was that, and why did he sound like the devil himself? When his brain had gotten over its shock, the words began to make sense.

"-HAS HIM, IT WAS A PORTKEY, AND NOW MY SON HAS BEEN PULLED INTO THIS. WE NEED TO FIND POUND NOW! HE IS OUR KILLER! I SWEAR TO MERLIN IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO DRACO--"

His incineration spell hit the shrieking red envelope just in time. Sighing, he pulled himself off the floor, knowing he was bound for Malfoy Manor once more... and this time would be infinitely less pleasurable since he wasn't going there to take tea with Narcissa.

* * *

He had tried everything he could think of. Disapparition was blocked. The Portkey didn't work in reverse. Attempting to climb the boxes was dangerous and proved impossible because of how precisely they were stacked. He tried to levitate himself over top of them, but couldn't get more than six feet off the floor. Then he'd tried moving the boxes; six feet was enough room for him to go under. Unfortunately, the boxes were damn heavy and it took everything he had to raise them a mere two inches off the floor. Then he'd tried to summon a broom. There had to be a broom in this place, right? But nothing came soaring over the boxes.

He did have the sense to point his wand at his backside and cast a pain-relieving charm. The throbbing there had proved very distracting. Even with a clear head, he was running out of ideas.

He supposed he could try to burn his way through, but the thought made him shudder. Draco would never forget the uncontrollable nature of fire. He had seen it engulf the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts with unfathomable speed. Worse, he had seen it devour Vincent alive. His former friend's ashes were likely still mingled among the ruin.

No fire, then. It could rage out of control and he might end up cooking himself. It was better to wait until morning. Then perhaps someone would come and all his worry would be for nothing.

* * *

Lucius was pacing like a madman. Narcissa was pale and drawn, her spine rigid where she sat on the drawing room couch. Dawlish could feel his heart throbbing rapidly in his chest; he'd had too many cups of tea.

Pound was not at his home. He wasn't at his ex-wife's. He was not at the Critiquill headquarters. Simply put, he was nowhere and it was driving them all mad.

An early-morning owl briefly interrupted their tense strategizing. It was for Lucius. He took the letter, pale eyes scouring it. Those eyes slipped shut for a moment when he was done. Thank Merlin... the blackmail situation with Hermione had been resolved. But that seemed so unimportant right now...

"What is it? Hostage demands?" Dawlish asked

He shook his head. Then he crumpled the parchment. "Is it some law of the universe that when one thing gets better, another must get worse?"

Both of his companions stared at him. Lucius tossed the note into the fire and they watched it blacken and disintegrate. Neither voiced any of the questions they surely had. Now wasn't the time.

"Okay, where else could he be?"

Lucius snapped his fingers in a sudden epiphany. "The warehouse!"

"What?"

"The warehouse! The place where they make the books, the one he brought me to!"

"I thought you didn't know where it was," Dawlish said cautiously.

"It doesn't matter. I can Apparate there if I picture it clearly enough." He pulled out his wand, obviously meaning to do just that.

"Absolutely not, Lucius. You splinched yourself last time."

"I had less than a second to prepare since I was about to be crushed. I think the circumstances are a little different." He closed his eyes. The image of the paper-sorting machine flashed into his head, as vivid as if he had just seen it a moment ago. He could get there. He knew he could.

"He's really going to do it," he heard Narcissa say in warning.

"Lucius, you idiot--"

_Pop._

_

* * *

  
_

They landed in a heap. At the last moment Dawlish had grabbed his arm, which he expected, and at the _very_ last moment, Narcissa had caught the sleeve of Dawlish's robe, which he didn't expect. Lucius turned to her, ready to admonish her because Merlin, with such a precarious hold she could have been splinched.

"Narcissa, you shouldn't have--"

Another voice layered over his, speaking the same exact words. Lucius and Dawlish exchanged an awkward glance.

"Don't tell me what I should and shouldn't do," Narcissa huffed, effectively silencing them. She stood and brushed off her robes.

"I'll be damned," Dawlish said as he did the same. "_That's_ the machine you said he'd put your arm in?"

Lucius nodded, eyes flashing about the area to get his bearings. He missed the Auror's grimace. He was too busy taking in how large this place was. His last visit had not been conducive to real observation of his surroundings.

It was a massive structure. To their right the production equipment splayed out in a tangle of metal and magic. That area alone was probably as large as a Quidditch pitch. To the left were rows and rows of boxes, ready to ship, just like the ones that had nearly crushed the life out of Lucius. The rows stretched on endlessly. He couldn't see the far wall at all, and Lucius had a stomach-jolting sense of dj vu. This was like being in the Hall of Prophecy in the Department of Ministries. It just went on and on forever...

"We should split up," Dawlish said. "Or better yet, go back and call for backup."

"Nothing is stopping you from doing that," Lucius replied shortly.

"I have to find an exit so I can figure out exactly where we are. Location spells are very finicky if they can't reach the sky."

"You find an exit, then. Narcissa and I will search for Draco."

Dawlish looked torn, and Lucius was certain that it had nothing to do with him. In truth, he wished Narcissa wasn't here, too; he didn't want any harm to come to her. Then again, he tended to forget how fearsome she could be when provoked. The abduction of her son went well beyond provocation.

"All right," the Auror relented. He flicked his wand at them and two rows of writing appeared on his wrist. The letters and numbers pulsed a rapid, yet subdued green. "Your vitals," he said by way of explanation. "If you get in trouble I'll see your heart rate, respiration, and blood pressure rise and know that you need help."

"What about you?" Narcissa asked.

He flashed a strained smile. "I can take care of myself."

* * *

A foot prodded him. Instinct took over and Draco wheeled backwards, scooting away from the none-too-gentle wake up call. He nearly screamed at the pain of the forgotten tailbone injury. Leaning on the side of his hip afforded some relief as he tried to catch his breath.

There he was - Aloysius Pound. He stood in the middle of the cardboard prison, arms crossed over his chest. There was no trace of the jolly man who had accosted him outside of Flourish and Blotts. How the hell had he gotten in? There was a way to escape, it was certain, but Draco was willing to bet that Pound wasn't going to surrender it out of the kindess of his heart.

"I took the liberty of depriving you of your wand," the older wizard said in a flinty voice.

Draco dragged himself to his feet. "What the hell do you want?"

"Just to show your father how serious I am. He's rather thick, is he not? Can't take a hint..."

"What are you on about?" he spat.

Pound ignored the question. "A businessman never forgets his associates," he murmured, rubbing his left forearm. Then he grinned. "Daddy's here, come to save you, dear boy. Aren't you lucky?"

The tone of his voice was chilling. Draco swallowed and took a step back. His apprehension was justified; a moment later a wand flashed in the dull fluorescent light, and his body was no longer his own to control.

* * *

They were searching quietly, stealthily. Narcissa was intensely focused in that way a mother could be when her child was in danger. Lucius was having a little more trouble keeping his thoughts in check. Dj vu was destroying him today; the memories of tearing through Hogwarts, corridor after corridor, looking desperately for his son during the final battle, clawed at his mind. He had sworn then that he would not put his family in danger ever again.

"I know you're here, Lucius."

The voice echoed ominously, ricocheting off boxes and bulkheads. He stopped short. He could feel Narcissa against his back.

"Come out and let's talk, old friend."

Old friend? He exchanged a look with Narcissa, one that was mutually confused and suspicious. He hadn't known Pound until this whole mess began. Or so he hoped...

"No harm will come to you. Just keep in mind that I have some...collateral."

Rage colored his vision. His son was _not_ collateral. Lucius felt Narcissa's hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard. He turned to her, and whispered so low that it was barely audible. "Stay here. When you can get to Draco, take him and go."

She nodded solemnly, recognizing that she alone had the element of surprise on her side. He trusted her not to lose her head. Narcissa reached out to clutch briefly at his hand, and then she let go.

Lucius took a deep breath and set off down the row of boxes, walking towards the voice. He didn't have to go far. There was a circle of sorts at the end of the row; boxes rose all around like some kind of cardboard Stonehenge. His stomach dropped out.

Draco was up there. He was standing atop a stack of those boxes, easily a hundred feet up. His toes were over the edge.

"One wrong move, Lucius, and he'll jump."

The certainty in Pound's tone told Lucius all he needed to know. Draco was under the Imperius Curse. He wanted to believe that Draco could fight it, but nobody really could. That was all a myth. The most anyone could do was resist a command for a few seconds, and even that took a monumental force of will.

"Your wand."

Lucius set it on the floor, his eyes never leaving Draco. Pound summoned it and the wand clattered across the ground until it lay at his feet. For a moment Lucius thought he would stomp upon it, but he only bent to pick it up and tuck it in his pocket.

"What is it that you want? The identity of the author?" Lucius asked coldly.

Pound chuckled. "Oh, no. I figured that out. I admit it took longer than it should have. I was looking in the wrong places. All along I thought it was someone I worked with... rather than someone I worked against."

"What on earth are you talking about?" he snapped, his frustration evident.

Pound walked in a slow circle. His slow stalk was reminiscent of the way the Dark Lord would orbit his prey as he made a show of thinking what he ought to do with him, when in reality his mind was already made up and everyone knew it. Lucius kept his breathing even and his body loose. He was not afraid of this man.

"There were a lot of clever young men rising in the Ministry in the late seventies, weren't there?"

Lucius didn't bother to answer.

"And you were one of them."

His eyes tracked Pound. The man couldn't stop moving, like a predator in captivity that was purposely starved. It was true, Lucius had cleaved his way through the ranks very quickly, buoyed by his innate cleverness and capacity for persuasion. But the wheeling and dealing of the Ministry had lost its charm quickly, and the best thing he could do during the scandal after the Dark Lord's "death" was voluntarily leave. His claims of Imperius were accepted; if he stayed on and continued to behave in the same exact way, faith in his innocence would be jeopardized. And what point was there in working at the Ministry if one could not bend the rules? Besides, they were just as easily corrupted from without as they were from within...

"I knew my charms worked. But sometimes they only work so long, and that was the only explanation for what was in the book. There were details only one of you would know," Pound rambled.

"One of us?" Lucius asked softly, cautiously.

"Yes, one of you, the young and powerful men who shaped the Ministry then... but you, Lucius, were not on my side."

He combed his mind, trying desperately to remember anyone who had been his opponent at the Ministry. Most didn't dare to oppose him, even then. He had an unusual combination of factors on his side: those being that he was usually right fiscally, if not morally, and that people wanted him to like them. So much power, and for no real reason but blood...

"I thought for certain it had to be one of them, and if they remembered the plotting at the Ministry, what else would they remember?"

What else, indeed? Lucius was still at a loss. He had no idea what the man was going on about, but the quieter he stayed, the better the chance that Pound would think that he did. That was, perhaps, the only power he had.

"The trouble is, they are all dead or in prison, with the exception of two. I found them. They had no memory of me, as I had made it years ago. How, I wondered, could there be a person who knew these things when everyone was silenced?"

"Not everyone was silenced," Lucius responded evenly. Anything to keep the man talking. He knew Narcissa was listening.

"Exactly. I went after Netherwood to find out who it was. He was very unhelpful. But I suppose he had to be, Lucius, since you subjected him to an Unbreakable Vow."

Oh, Pound knew, all right. It hit Lucius like a punch in the stomach. He had to play cool, though. This was the old familiar game. "Would you have acted differently?"

"Certainly not. I should have recognized then the strategy of my old enemy from the Ministry days, but I didn't. I came after you still thinking it was one of them, one of the boys. But then I reread the book, Lucius, and _I_ remembered something." A smile spread over his face. "I was not the only one who was proficient at memory charms."

Pound touched a hand almost compulsively to the nearest box. Lucius would bet that it was his book inside.

"The Dark Lord sent me to observe you, to recruit you if I thought you had promise. I watched you very closely. I didn't think you were much, to be honest; you have a brain in your head, Lucius, that I can't deny, but I saw little evidence that you had the proper... temperament to serve the Dark Lord. And of course your outmaneuvering me in the Ministry left me with a bad taste in my mouth. Until..." he breathed, eyelids dipping in some memory that he found pleasurable. "I followed you home one evening, but you didn't go home."

He should have known. He should have known it was some connection to Voldemort. Nearly everything bad in his life bore a tendril of union to that monster. Lucius clenched his jaw, wondering what he was about to hear.

"I saw you stalk a man, a Muggle, with the same ease that I stalked you. I saw you abduct him. And then I saw you destroy him, Lucius. I knew right then that you were perfect. I revealed myself to you and extended the invitation to meet with the Dark Lord."

"I don't know what you're talking about." And really, he didn't, because his head had gone fuzzy from the Amnesiac charm.

"Of course not. I Obliviated you like all the others, but I never thought to erase your memories of the Ministry. That was a mistake. And so was assuming that you would allow me to keep the knowledge of what you did to that Muggle." He grinned and brought his hands together in three short claps. "Very good, Lucius. Very smart to Obliviate me, the only witness to murder."

"You speak madness," he returned scornfully.

"DON'T PRETEND!" Pound thundered without warning. "Don't you dare act like you don't know what I mean. I tried to warn you, Lucius, even when I didn't know you were the author. I tried to send a message to you through Netherwood. You didn't listen. You kept on. Now something has to be done about it." He raised his wand and Lucius's eyes jerked back up to Draco. "Because, old friend, I did not Obliviate Voldemort and every Death Eater known to me in order to be discovered this far down the road. I did not give up my position as his right hand and Potions master to suffer the very consequences I sought to avoid. I will not go to prison. I regret nothing, but I will not rot in a cell at the whim of the spineless mudbloods and blood traitors that run this world. You alone have the knowledge to convict me. What shall I do, Lucius?" He flicked his wand and Draco's right foot lifted jerkily. "Tell me, what shall I do?"

"Leave my son out of this! He's done nothing to you!" Lucius returned angrily, his heart in his throat.

"Oh, but he's the only thing that can get a guarantee out of you, isn't he? The only person who means enough?" Draco teetered on the edge of the boxes, balanced on one foot.

"Obliviate me again. I won't fight. Please, don't harm my son."

"Obliviation doesn't work, you've proved that. Not secure enough for my tastes." Pound licked his lips. "How about your strategy, Lucius? How about an Unbreakable Vow?"

"Fine," Lucius said shakily, stepping forward and extending his right arm. "Do it."

His skin crawled when Pound's arm slid along his, hand locking about his wrist. That custom wand hovered over their entwined arms. This was foolish, he knew, because Pound could put any stipulations on this that he wanted. He could make Lucius's life pure hell. He could well and truly silence him. The cruelest of Unbreakable Vows made the adherents afraid to speak for fear of slipping, of ending their own lives.

"Do you swear that you will never again speak of--"

And just then, some kind of alarm went off. Lucius jumped. Pound's hand was out of his in a flash.

"Oh, Lucius, you brought friends, didn't you?" Pound's face twisted into cold anger. "That just won't do. It just... won't... do!" he shouted. His wand slashed through the air, and high above, Draco's foot stepped out onto nothing.

"No!" he screamed, but his son was already falling. He had no wand. Narcissa, Merlin, where was Narcissa?

"STUPEFY!"

"ARRESTO MOMENTUM!"

The spells were shouted at the same time in two very different voices. Red light hit Pound squarely in the face. He went down as if clothes-lined, head cracking on the stone floor. A second later Narcissa came out of nowhere, lunging forward; she and Draco collapsed in a heap, skidding briefly to thump against the boxes. Mercifully, they remained securely stacked.

It happened so fast that he could scarcely process it. Dawlish was binding Pound with magical restraints. Draco was pulling his mother to her feet, frantically asking if she was all right. As if under the Imperius himself, Lucius drifted towards the incapacitated man, the one who had tampered so efficiently with his memories. Pound thought he had remembered, but the reality was that Lucius would have gone on blissfully unaware of Aloysius Pound and his former connection to him if Pound's paranoia had not gotten the better of him.

"Here." Dawlish again, holding his wand out to him as he sat none too gently atop the Death Eater cum magazine editor. Dazedly, Lucius took it. Other Aurors began to flood into the space, armed to the teeth. "The alarm triggered when our backup arrived. There was no one else with Pound, right?"

"Not that I know of."

Dawlish sighed, extracting another wand from Pound's pockets. "Is this your son's?"

Lucius nodded and took that as well. Draco was currently being smothered half to death in his mother's bosom.

"All right. I'll take him in. When the three of you have been checked out, you can come down to the Ministry to give your statements. The kidnapping charge will hold him until then."

Lucius nodded again, still a bit stunned. "I... thank you."

"It's my job," Dawlish said affably. "And believe me, no one is happier to have caught this nutter than me."

* * *

Lucius should have felt at ease now that Pound was in custody, but he didn't. He would be a fool to think that Narcissa and Draco hadn't overheard his conversation with Pound. They now knew that he was the author _and_ a murderer - though the latter could not be proven.

Neither seemed inclined to talk about it. Narcissa was delirious with joy that everyone had come out of the situation unharmed. Draco was patiently tolerating her even though he was tired and nursing a broken tailbone. The healers would put it to rights as soon as they got to St. Mungo's.

But he knew the time for a conversation would come, especially with his son. He wasn't looking forward to it. He could lie to a lot of people, but no longer to Draco.

All of this made him think twice about the book he was trying to finish. The precautions he'd put in place for the first one hadn't been enough. He didn't know what else he could do, short of not publishing at all. How could be sure that there weren't other Aloysius Pounds out there? And why had he ever thought it was okay to put so much incriminating behavior down on paper?

He knew why. He had never anticipated surviving this long. If he was discovered, it wouldn't matter, for he would be long dead. It made sense at the time. Lucius shook his head; depression made people do strange things.

He released a heavy sigh. The legal system was inherently two-faced; he knew how quickly this could turn against him. And Merlin, if it got out that he was the author...

A sudden, very sharp headache bloomed behind his eyes.

"Father? Are you all right?"

He looked up into Draco's concerned glance and told the truth. "I'll be fine when all of this is over."


	31. Chapter 31

Hermione woke to a sunny morning and Crookshanks' behind in her face. After shoving the cat out of the way, she sat up and stretched. Hopefully today she'd receive word that everything was sorted on Lucius's end and they could return to Italy.

Her hope faded slightly when she saw that her only mail was the Daily Prophet. Frowning, Hermione started to put it aside for a later perusal. That was when she caught sight of the Prophet's headline, or at least the half of it she could see with the newspaper still folded.

**OFFICIALS SAY MALFOY**

Oh, dear. What were they trying to pin on him now? Gingerly, she unfolded the front page.

**'FAIM' AUTHOR IDENTIFIED: OFFICIALS SAY MALFOY PENNED BESTSELLER**

Hermione cursed so loudly that Crookshanks actually hissed at her for interrupting his beauty sleep.

* * *

His sleep was deep and murky. Lucius felt entombed within it, held down by the threat of the dreams he might have. His body was so happy to have those still hours, but even in sleep, his mind could not relax.

Lucius came awake slowly through a barrage of disjointed faces and locales. Some he recognized, some he didn't, but all bore the same faint undercurrent of dread. There was a man in there that he no longer knew, the one who had reveled in the dark nights and intoxicating high that came from both being powerful and powerless, and he had no desire to confront him again. Just when he had moved past it all, it was literally back to haunt him.

The thoughts that he deserved it welled up, clenching in his chest. Unfortunate things had befallen him, yes, but it had all been too easy since he met Hermione again. He couldn't trust that life would remain so simple. His punishment wasn't complete; the world had given him a respite, time to regain his hold on life, and now it would challenge him once again.

As he opened his eyes, his jaw clenched. He would hold on to what he had until his fingers were worn to the bone. He didn't care about the money or the properties; he only cared for his small circle of people, the ones who had the fortitude to be involved in his life and to whom it mattered. They were his wealth...and for them, he would face anything.

* * *

Harry read the Prophet raptly, which wasn't something he was prone to since most of it was rubbish. Even though everything had turned out well in the end, he still distrusted the paper. However, this wasn't just some mouthy reporter making a sensational claim. This had come directly from Kingsley Shacklebolt, the one Minister of Magic he found to be trustworthy.

The article said that Lucius Malfoy had written the bestselling book in ninety years - a book he'd actually read. Harry found Faim to be strange and disturbing, but also eerily familiar in some ways.

He knew what it was like to be alone and gripped by a fear he couldn't admit to. He also knew the dark bouts of temper that crept up on the main character. The only difference was that the man in the story had never had anyone there to balance him. Harry always had Ron, Hermione, Sirius, the Weasleys...the list went on and on. He had come away from that book with a much greater appreciation for all those who had kept him sane in the worst of times.

He was also acutely aware of how lucky he was. Harry continued to scan the article, an unsettled feeling in his gut.

_The question now becomes, how much is truth and how much is fiction?_

_

* * *

_

That was the question on everyone's mind as the next week went by. Everyone except Draco, because he already knew the answer. He suspected his mother did, too, when he found her in the sitting room bawling her eyes out with his copy of Faim in her lap.

* * *

She lay next to his warm body, drowsing in the rhythm of his breathing. It wasn't always so comforting. Since the discovery that a memory charm had locked away much of his early Death Eater tenure, he had been wracked by nightmares. Sometimes he had trouble distinguishing which were memories and which were the creations of a nervous mind that dreaded what he might have done once upon a time.

When it got bad, he resorted to Dreamless Sleep. However, Lucius didn't consider it bad until he was either screaming or sleepless for more than three days. Hermione didn't like to see him in either state and consistently tried to get him to find a better way to control the flow of his memories, but Lucius couldn't be budged.

She knew why. To avoid any inquiry into Pound's accusations that he murdered Muggles, Lucius had agreed to provide whatever memories he could to the Ministry in order to assist with solving cold cases. The alternative was to deprive the many families still looking for answers of their closure, for Lucius had made it abundantly clear that he wouldn't cooperate unless he was guaranteed amnesty. It was an arrangement that Draco had come up with, and along with Dawlish's help, they had managed to sway Shacklebolt into doing what would look better for his administration.

Hermione frowned to herself. She had once held Kingsley in high esteem, but it was clear that he was becoming just another politician. In this case it was lucky that Lucius had his number and she wasn't about to protest, but it made her wonder about many things, not the least of which involved the mutual hatred Lucius and Kingsley obviously held for one another.

Case in point: whenever the Minister was brought up in conversation, or even a newspaper article, a formerly extinct flicker of coldness frosted over Lucius's eyes. And though Kingsley had protected Lucius once by ordering Hermione's knickers destroyed rather than going forward with DNA tests, the same courtesy had not been extended when he found out that Lucius really was the author of Faim. He'd made no effort at all to conceal that bit of information. It almost seemed like he took it personally that Lucius had tried to keep it a secret. The fact that Lucius had never lied to him only angered him more.

She tilted her head slightly, watching the way the candlelight caught on his face. He was relaxed. She hoped that his sleep would be uninterrupted tonight; he needed it. The twin stressors of recovering terrible memories and having to deal with the media fallout of his authorship of Faim were taking a toll on him.

A week ago she'd returned home from class and suffered from a bad case of deja vu. He was standing by the fireplace, manuscript in hand, and for a moment she thought he was going to try to destroy it all over again. When she called out to him, he turned. His face was calm, but so very tired.

"I can't publish it," he murmured. "All that work...and it will just sit in a drawer."

She had coaxed him away from the fireplace knowing that he was right. Soif was likely a hundred times worse than Faim in terms of its capacity to get him in trouble. Now that everyone knew he was the author, no charade could cover up the fact that the man he was writing about was him.

Hermione had spent a long time convincing him that the worth of Soif lay in the fact that the mere process of writing was like an exorcism. He was expelling the last of his old snake's skin; the importance was in that and not in any potential audience. The work wasn't wasted, and even if he couldn't publish it, it was no less valuable.

Lucius believed her, but she could tell that it pained him to have to give up on it, especially since he still didn't know how to end it. He didn't like a loose end any more than she did. He put his quills and ink away with a heavy-hearted resignation.

Since then, he had been keeping himself busy dealing with the media hurricane. The first thing he had done was to make the villa Unplottable to any wizard or witch who had not already been there. At the same time, they made sure that the Muggles could still see the villa, but put wards in place that would curtail any desire they had to come up and investigate. The only ones who were immune to that were Paolo and Elisabetta.

Because of his crafty spellwork, they hadn't been bothered at the villa. The rest of the world was a different story. Lucius couldn't walk two yards in London without be deluged by reporters. Even Draco and Narcissa were being hounded. That made him angrier than some of the insensitive questions that were hurled at him and he had made it known that if his son and ex-wife were harassed, he would take legal action.

Hermione was free of it all since no one knew she was involved with him. That didn't make it any less stressful to see the strain on his face or to hear him recount the sheer rudeness that some of the reporters and readers thought it necessary to bestow upon him. Someone had actually told him that they were glad he was raped, because he deserved it. Another person had accused him of making it up for sympathy. Still another had rationalized that because of the sexuality inherent in much of the book, he must have been asking for it and even enjoyed it. Hermione wasn't really sure which was worse, and frankly, she wanted to strangle all of them.

Others received him more warmly. However, those people expected action from him, and that was something Lucius wasn't prepared for. Owning his story was overwhelming enough in the public spotlight. He wasn't at a point where he could begin to think about activism or charitable foundations or prevention. Someday he would be, but he needed time and people were impatient.

Still, it spoke volumes that no one seemed to want to throw him in jail. The brief mention of murder in the book was easily chalked up to a revenge fantasy, and oddly, no one questioned Lucius on it in spite of the fact that Aloysius Pound insisted he had proof. There wasn't a single person in all of Wizarding England who would believe him. It seemed that Lucius had finally passed the mantle of Most Hated Former Death Eater on to someone else, and it felt damn good.

However, the Purebloods made their disdain for him very clear. They felt that his writings were an attack on their customs and way of life. He was lower than dirt to them now, and some of his most vocal critics were people he had once counted as friends, if not allies at the very least. Because he dared to paint a familiar portrait that revealed so much about what went on behind the veil of Pureblood perfection, he became a pariah.

There were some, like Andromeda, who spoke up in his defense. Most of the others were not of Lucius's generation; they were the younger ones, Draco's age, who were only now realizing what their rigid, sheltered upbringing had done to them. In some ways, having them on his side was more important than their parents or grandparents, and Lucius knew that.

He had stopped caring about the Pureblood opinion a long time ago, anyhow. Hermione still wondered if he no longer considered himself pure, and if that was why it meant so little to him, but she didn't dare ask. He didn't need reminders of his condition amidst the rest of the chaos.

She stared at him with an ache of love in her chest. She wanted to shield him from it all. Hermione had never before had to sit and watch as a person she loved was stretched in so many different directions. At least with Harry she had been able to do things, to defend him in whatever way she could. Lucius repeatedly told her that it wasn't her job to protect him. He also said that all of this was his own doing and therefore his responsibility. His voice said that, but frequently his eyes said something else.

But the haunted blue irises were hidden now, and he was at peace. Hermione snuffed out the candle and lay down beside him, hoping that it would last the night.

* * *

Draco lay sprawled in an oversized chair in one of the Manor's many libraries. He was warm and pleasantly buzzed from sharing a bottle of wine with Pansy. The dark-haired woman was drowsing on the couch across from him. Pansy had always made a good drinking buddy - she was talkative, funny, and uninhibited enough to make things interesting. However, Draco wasn't oblivious to the fact that her reappearance in his life was directly related to the sudden media madness that surrounded his father's book. Pansy wasn't known for her loyalty, so the only answer was that the lens of fame (or infamy) brought her to his doorstep.

She was trying to seduce him; Draco recognized the signs. She had thrown herself at him before, during the later years of school, but back then it had mostly been about teenaged hormones. This was a different creature entirely.

Pansy was a good drinking buddy, but that was all she would ever be. Eventually she would figure that out. Until then, he was more than happy to laugh and drink with her and fend off her transparent advances. He had no doubt that she would find another man more important than him, and even if he didn't make her happy, his money would.

In the silence, his mind turned to other things. Things that cycled in and out of his stream of consciousness, always plucking at his attention and his patience. Namely, what did this turn of events mean?

It was obvious that his father had gone through a lot of trouble to keep the world from knowing that he wrote Faim. Draco could understand why. It was very personal, a glimpse inside a mind that even Draco couldn't claim to know terribly well. His father was, like any Slytherin, a private person, and he'd hate to have his personal business splashed about the world without the cover of anonymity.

But if that was the case, why had he written it at all? Draco shook his head and massaged his temples. There were so many questions. Even without the book to consider, the situation was rife with them.

Had his father murdered a Muggle? That was what Pound kept insisting, as if it made a difference in his own situation. Draco bit his lip. He had seen a glimpse of a vicious man when he and his father had fallen into Voldemort's trap in the old dining room. He had no trouble believing that that man could murder someone, because he'd nearly murdered him.

Draco was no fool. He knew that the Death Eaters had been extremists, zealots of the worst kind. However, during most of his tenure he had been tucked away at Hogwarts. The worst he'd witnessed was the Carrows inventing some particularly evil and torturous detentions. He was endlessly thankful for that, though he knew that the activities of other Death Eaters were not so innocuous.

But he also knew his father wasn't like Bellatrix or some of the others. He did not like to inflict pain for fun. Draco suspected his childhood would have been very different if that was the case. If he killed anyone, it had been long ago, in a time when his mind was torn as it had been in the old dining room.

It was disconcerting how little it bothered him that his father might be a murderer. He had come to terms with killing, he supposed. For an entire year he had believed that he had to (and actively tried to) kill Dumbledore. He knew from personal experience that people did what they had to in times where the world went mad.

This felt like one of those times. In fact, it didn't feel much different from the aftermath of the war. He was receiving hate and praise from all angles, people he'd never met, for a reason he couldn't control, and that was only Draco thinking about himself. The things people said to his father...

And the things he couldn't say to him. Lucius had shied away from the last few therapy sessions with Healer Newbery, saying only that he did not want to distract from Draco's problems with his own. He could tell that his father felt an incredible guilt. For years Draco had wanted that, any acknowledgment of what Lucius had done to his son's sanity and his life, anything at all. Now that he had it, Draco wished it would just go away. It was another barrier between them and he was tired of walls.

Draco could only sigh. He had gotten everything he wanted, but like so many times before, he was discovering that he didn't really want those things at all. What he truly desired was peace, to be unknown, unimportant, inconsequential, and free to live his life because of it.

He dragged himself out of the chair and approached Pansy. She was out cold now; it seemed her tolerance for alcohol had waned. She was a pretty girl. He even liked her so-called pug nose; Draco honestly couldn't picture her any other way. If only he didn't know what she was really here for...his fame, his money, his name, whatever was left of it...

Carefully, he gathered her in his arms and made his way to the floo. In another few minutes he'd brought her back to her flat and tucked her into bed. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to use Pansy for her company. He had strange feelings for her, feelings that, if scented by the shrewd woman, would most certainly be used against him...and what was better at muddling the mind than laughter and wine?

Next time she called, he would turn her down. Right now it was better for him to be alone than in company whose motives were easy to ascertain, but difficult to resist. He longed for companionship - since the end of the war, it had been scarce - and though his mind knew what to expect, his emotions might get the better of him.

Draco left Pansy's flat feeling morose and alone. Once back in the Manor, he couldn't sleep. Though his stomach had begun to chastise him for the overindulgence, he did the only thing that had provided him comfort and distraction in the last year. He went to work.

Ah, but he wasn't alone. That redhead was at the Ministry, too. He thought she looked different, but couldn't really tell from across the cafeteria. She waved, offered a commiserating smile, and then returned to her work. Coffee in hand, Draco did the same.

* * *

Hermione was awakened by Musca, who had curled up on Lucius's empty pillow only to end up with one of his master's long blond hairs stuck to his nose. Musca was rolling around and pawing at his snout, sneezing from the tickle. Chuckling, Hermione reached over and removed the offending hair from Musca's face. The cat blinked at her and then, apparently deciding she was worthwhile, came to snuggle against her chest.

She wondered where Lucius had gone, but it wasn't unusual for him to be out of the house long before her these days. He couldn't sleep late. He also couldn't bear to be idle. The time that had once been taken up by writing needed to be filled. Usually he went to England to continue with his project of purifying the Manor or to deal with the book debacle. He would be back by dinner time.

In the meantime, she had to go to class. She was finally caught up on everything. It seemed impossible, but her first semester was almost over. She was on her way to becoming a Healer and few things had ever felt so right to her - few things besides the beautiful, complex man that should have been all wrong.

Hermione smiled and then got up, hoping that the day would be kind to both of them.

* * *

Unbeknownst to Hermione, Lucius had gone against habit today and avoided England altogether. The sun blazed down on him and he relished it. Down here it was summer and the heat reminded him of the earliest days in Italy. It had been a good idea to come to Australia; no one would think to look here and since his mother had apparently never mentioned him to a soul, no one knew him, so he would be left alone for a little while.

Besides, he had to deal with his mother's estate eventually. She had left everything to him, but he had all but abandoned it months ago because he simply couldn't tolerate the emotions it wrung out of him. Now it seemed less threatening, as if the ghosts had finally departed.

He was inspecting the grounds now. It was a pretty bit of land with its own vineyard and a swimming pool. Lucius didn't want or need another property, but he was certain that Draco wouldn't mind having it. He knew instinctively that there were times when his son just wanted to get away from the strain of England or Europe altogether.

Aside from the property itself, there were many things to go through. His father had not left his mother much in the way of money, but he had been generous with material things. Most of the jewelry had gone to her, save for what had been set aside for Narcissa, and a good amount of silver, crystal, and objets d'art had been left to her, also. Lucius recognized most of those things, since he'd grown up seeing many of them displayed on shelves that would never know a speck of dust in spite of their disuse. He planned to take what he liked back to the place it belonged and the rest would go into their Gringotts vault.

Everything else must have come from her second husband. He had died and left most everything to her, including the house and the land. He would let Draco sort through those things at his leisure. Lucius didn't care for the late wizard's taste - not in women, and certainly not in art or decorating.

He took a while to go through the jewelry, wondering if there was anything Hermione would like. She seldom bothered with jewelry; her hands were free of rings and necklaces got stuck in her hair, so she never wore them. The most he'd ever seen on her was a simple bracelet and a pair of earrings.

Narcissa once told him that he had a good instinct for jewelry. Like any other gift, it had to fit the person it was meant for. Hermione was low maintenance, but still very feminine underneath. She liked to feel beautiful but didn't necessarily need the best to do so. Well, she would get the best from him, but he had learned not to brag; it was the thoughtfulness of the gift and not the gift itself that impressed her.

Regardless, he couldn't help but picture the many diamond rings in his mother's collection gracing her left hand. She deserved the biggest diamond in existence. Even then, no rock, no matter how beautiful it was, could adequately express what she meant to him.

Unfortunately, there was nothing there that stood out to him. Everything was too gaudy for Hermione; she'd be more likely to pawn it for a good cause than wear it. The thought made him smile for the first time in several days.

Armed with that smile, Lucius approached the door he had thus far been unable to breach. There was no ward or hex holding him back. It was just a barrier within his own mind, and now, with a little donated courage, it would be broken.

* * *

"I...I think I've got it!"

The Cursebreaker stepped away from the door, his face anxious. Dawlish stepped forward with his wand raised. He, and indeed everyone on the team, were only too conscious of the fact that they were dealing with a very smart, very tricky man. Just as the ancient Egyptians had booby-trapped their tombs and precious objects, Pound had left some very nasty spells on this door.

They had been working on it for days. It was hidden in the basement of a second property, one that they had been told about by Lucius Malfoy. He had vaguely recalled being there once. The memory he provided was fuzzy and incomplete, but his instinct was that finding this place was important, and Dawlish agreed.

It had taken a long time to find the house itself. Once inside, it appeared to be in a state of disuse. They had almost given up on it, but then Junior Auror Potter had spotted some faded footprints in the dust of the basement leading directly to the door. A halved footprint told them that someone had been past it within the last month.

The Cursebreaker had been at work almost nonstop for a week. The more resistance they encountered, the more certain Dawlish was that the answers they needed were beyond that door. And now, it might be within their reach...

"Stand back," he ordered. He knew he could be that Auror who died from a horrible spell still left on the door, but he was in charge. He wasn't going to place one of his subordinates in the way of harm, and the Cursebreaker (who probably knew better than him what to expect) already looked half-dead with exhaustion.

Swallowing, he braced himself for the worst. "Alohomora."

_Click_.

* * *

Things were just as he'd left them in his fit of rage. He hadn't really made a mess in spite of the fact that he wanted to burn the library to ashes. Everything remained somber and dusty; the book was still there on the desk, a white splash in the shadows. His book.

With a tremulous breath, Lucius picked it up. He had never complimented Netherwood on the cover design, or lack thereof. It was like the man had been in his head; it was so stark, so blatant. It said all it needed to say with pure emptiness.

A pang of regret hit him. If he hadn't published, Patrick would never have been placed in the line of fire. He couldn't have known what would happen but that didn't do much to soothe him. A man had died because of him, a good man with a wife and children who needed him. That would forever weigh on Lucius even though the true blame was squarely on Pound.

In hindsight, though, it had been very stupid to put so much personal information out where anyone could read it. Lucius wasn't entirely sure what he wanted to accomplish by doing it. Back then, in the grips of depression, there had been some ill-formed desire for catharsis. Having to look into the eyes of friends and enemies now, when they knew...it was almost worse than the initial experiences. To give people information was to provide a weapon. There were many who might want to use it.

He turned the book over in his hands. The rippled pages meant that his mother had cried while she read it, or perhaps that was wishful thinking; she might just have splashed some water on it while sitting by the pool. But if she had cried…Lucius didn't quite know how that made him feel. A part of him recognized her sorrow and guilt and could almost forgive her. The other part railed against it, hating her for her cowardice.

He had to make his peace with her. Wherever she was, he needed to release her specter. The trouble was that he had no idea how to do so. Absently, he flipped the pages of the book against his thumb, the sound of the pages rapidly swishing putting order to his thoughts.

Until something shot out of the pages and fell to the desk. Actually, two somethings. Envelopes. Lucius froze. He stood there for a long time, staring at the things that silently menaced him, one yellowed and old, the other blindingly white and fresh. His name was on the front of both.

* * *

Dawlish winced, but he had both eyes open. He realized, as they stood in absolute silence, that death had not struck. He also realized that Harry Potter was standing on his right, wand raised, even though he had ordered everyone back. For heaven's sake, how many times did he have to tell the brash young hero that he was not going to have him killed in some frivolous display of courage after everything he'd already survived?

One stern look had Potter taking an abashed step back. Dawlish didn't hold it against the young man; for so long he had been acting on his own without anyone to guide him. He was learning. Slowly, he would begin to understand the balance between caution and impulsivity, and likewise which situations called for each one. His instincts were good, but it was clear to the experienced Auror that Potter also had a great deal of luck. Luck sometimes ran out.

Like right now. Finally, Aloysius Pound's luck had run out. With a nod, he beckoned his team forward.

The door opened with a stereotypical creak. What had looked to be nothing more than a closet from the outside was in reality a vast laboratory. A well-stocked one, too, by the looks of things. Dawlish snapped into action.

"We need a Potions expert down here right away. Start collecting those papers. I want everything bagged and brought back to the Ministry, and I mean everything, people! Go!"

* * *

Lucius recognized the two drastically different styles of penmanship. He didn't want to read the letters, but he needed to. He Scourgified the dust from the chair and sat with a leaden feeling in his gut. His hands were clumsy as he pulled at the delicate paper of the older note, automatically his father's by its age.

_Dear Lucius,_

_If you're reading this, I am dead. I have asked your mother to give you this letter once I'm gone, at her own discretion. I hope she will attend to my wishes, for this is probably the most important one._

_Dragon Pox is truly a wicked disease. I can barely move without breaking the sores. Just to write this letter I have to wear a great deal of protective clothing, but I can't say I mind it. I know you could not come to see me even if you wanted to, for fear of contagion, but nonetheless, your absence is painful to me. So is the absence of Draco. I do not know what we did two years ago to make you hate us so. I love your boy, Lucius. I love my grandson. I wish that someday you would tell him that._

_While I do not know what happened to push you away recently, I do know why you hate me. Why you hate your mother. Why you would not come to see me even if you could. Your mother finally broke down and told me, when the healers informed me that I had four weeks left to live._

_She was drunk, of course. I couldn't understand it, unless she was drinking out of celebration, for soon she would be free of me. It is no secret that your mother and I were not compatible. I never loved her as anything more than the mother of my child, and even that was trying. She was no mother to you, and I couldn't be around to be a father, not that I knew how._

_But anyhow, she told me. She told me of the day, a month after your tenth birthday, when you confessed to her. When you tried to express what that filthy Muggle had done to you._

_Lucius, I know that you were terrified of me. I had made it so. I know that I railed against Muggles, and Half Bloods, and Mudbloods, that I had punished you before for associating with them. I know that this loomed in your mind while you struggled to keep that secret in._

_I wish to every deity there is, or is not, that you had chosen me. I would not have stood for that being done to you. My rage would have been extreme, but it never, ever would have been directed at you. I know that no one invites such invasion, such violation, least of all a nine-year-old boy._

_Perhaps no one ever told you this, but it was not your fault. It was his fault, Lucius, entirely his, and he is in hell burning for it for all eternity. Perhaps that is where I will go, too, but I can take at least the small comfort that if I am sent there, I will have a purpose. I will make hell even more miserable for that wretched Muggle than it already is._

_I know you searched for him, sought him out for some kind of revenge. You never found him. You never had the chance to face him and exact your punishment. I want so badly for you to have that opportunity. I dream about it. I want to watch you smash his head into the floor until it bleeds like a broken melon. Death by magic is too good for someone like him._

_At times I can only sit here and cry in absolute regret and frustration. I know I raised you never to do such a thing, and you will detest my hypocrisy, but all makes sense now. I understand why the light went out of your eyes._

_And there was light in your eyes when you were a child, so much that I think I hated it a little bit. I was so miserable in my own life that I despised your ability to be happy. It is stupid and petty for a grown man to be jealous of a child, but I was. Even in childhood I was never as happy as you. You were something special, Lucius. With an alcoholic mother and a bitter father, you managed to be pleasant and magnanimous and so much better than either of us. I should have seen that for the blessing it was. And I should have known that when all of it disappeared, it meant that something truly horrible had happened to you._

_Now I know why your grades were never quite what they could have been. Why you developed a streak of cruelty a mile wide, and the spell repertoire to match. Why you were attracted to that Half-Blood radical and put this family's good name on the line to support ideals of extremism. And through it all, I did nothing. I looked the other way. I looked the other way in regards to my son's happiness and well-being._

_I deserve your hatred. There is nothing I can do to make up for all this. It pains me that I had to discover this now, when I'm dying, but I suppose that is karma. I had so many years to do even one thing right by you and didn't. Now I have two weeks and you wouldn't see me if I begged._

_I think about what it must have been like for you. You must have felt like you could do no right. There wasn't a single person in your world that you could trust. You were trapped in your own head. Everything I taught you said that you had to be strong, impenetrable, and perfect, like me – what a lie. What a terrible, costly lie._

_I am sorry, Lucius. I am so sorry that it hurts. It rages in my chest and fills my throat with bile. I want to get up out of this bed, sores and all, and do something, anything that could change what has come to pass. If I was not so weak, and there wasn't the risk of contaminating the books, I would be in the library right now researching spells to travel to or alter the past. I have gone so far as to ask the Ministry for a Time-Turner. But by the time my request gets through all the bureaucracy, I will be dead. They will never approve it, anyway._

_So since I cannot save you, I have to settle for saying the things I should have said all along. I love you. I am proud of you. You are a better person than me. You are strong and smart and handsome and generous, compassionate, talented, cunning, loyal, fierce, tolerant, witty, caring…and some of those things bled out of you for a long time. But when Draco was born, I saw them return. I saw some spark in your eye, not the same as when you were young, but enough to give me hope._

_I am in no position to ask favors of you. But please, Lucius, do not lose those good parts of yourself again. Do not drown in pain and hate. Do not become that wraith. Be a man and not a ghost. Be a father and not some cold patriarch. Be everything that I could not._

_And as I cannot rightfully call myself your father, I remain…_

_Abraxas_

There were times when even he, with the mind of a writer, couldn't put words to a feeling. This was not one of those times. There was only one possible way to describe this. He felt…like he was going to vomit.

Lucius stood calmly, his stomach roiling, and walked out of the library.

* * *

Twenty minutes later found him with his head resting on an immaculate toilet seat. The sick had come and gone quickly, like the shock that had been hidden away in that envelope. Unfortunately, he didn't feel better as one often did after a tete-a-tete with the porcelain god. He felt like grease was flowing through his veins, liquefying his muscles, and that was why he stayed where he was in spite of the indignity of the pose.

At last it abated and he pushed painfully to his feet. Lucius felt frail in that moment, whittled down to something less than he was. His body didn't have the bulk to hold up the obesity of mind that plagued him.

In another few minutes, he'd recovered enough to stagger over to the sink. He cast a teeth-cleaning charm, splashed water on his face, and inspected his clothes. He was fine…for now. He still had one letter to read and for all he knew, it would be worse.

But when he opened the second envelope, the one with the crisper, whiter parchment, there were no words written upon it. There were just some small warps where tears had fallen. He didn't know how to take that. Either his mother could spare some crocodile tears, but no real words of apology, or her grief and regret and guilt had been so great that they defied words, and her tears were the purest apology he could ever get.

* * *

When class ended, Hermione found yet another unexpected person waiting for her in the piazza. Once before it had been Andromeda. Now Harry stood among the crowd, looking as nondescript as he could manage with his messy hair and Muggle clothes.

He was happy to see her, but there was a graveness in his face that she knew simply from witnessing it so many times. Harry couldn't hide it when something was troubling him. Nonetheless, he accepted her embrace and squeezed her back before asking her if they could go somewhere to talk.

She thought about bringing him to the villa, but decided against it. Neither Harry nor Lucius needed any acrimony in their lives right now. She led him to a small salumeria and ordered a mozzarella and tomato sandwich for them to share. She was ruining her dinner, but no matter. As long as she could convince Jo-Jo that she wasn't hungry and that was why she was only picking at her food, no harm would be done.

At last, after they'd both eaten their fill, Harry sat back and gathered his words.

"Hermione, I've got word on Aloysius Pound. I thought you and...well, Malfoy... would want to know."

She nodded eagerly. They had puzzled over it together, wondering how he'd managed to frame his coworker and what else he'd been up to. Lucius had enough on his mind and gave up on those brainstorming sessions quickly. Hermione, on the other hand, often found herself drifting off in thought at inopportune times. She hated when she was confronted with a mystery she couldn't solve and her mind would perseverate.

"We finally broke through the warding on the basement door in Pound's second house. There was a Potions lab in there." He gave a rueful little smile. "Snape would have loved it."

"What did you find?"

"A lot of things. Pound is...well, to put it plainly, he's something of a Potions genius. He tweaked the Polyjuice formula to work on a delay. When ingested, the drinker remains the same, but after an hour, they change into the target. That's how he was able to frame Bartholomew. He got hold of some of his hair at the Critiquill and used it in the Polyjuice variant to make it look like he was being framed, in order to frame Bartholomew."

"So when he attacked Lucius, it was really Pound, and the blood..."

"Yes. By the time forensics got ahold of it, it had changed to Bartholomew's."

A look of alarm crossed her face. "He hasn't distributed it, has he?"

"Not that we know of." Harry drummed his fingers on the table. "But he probably planned to."

"Good thing he was caught," she breathed, shaking her head. That kind of potion in the hands of the wrong people could make it impossible to pin a crime on the true culprit. She could only imagine how many people would be unjustly sent to Azkaban.

"He had a lot of plans," Harry murmured. "We found a whole shelf of journals. He was planning to restart Voldemort's vision without...what did he say? 'Without the mania and shortcomings of a vengeful Half-blood too befuddled by dark magic.'"

Hermione frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means that he planned to eradicate Muggleborns purely through every day magic. Potions, mostly. He designed one to raise a red M on the hand of anyone who is Muggleborn, and an H on those with a Muggleborn, Muggle, or Half-blood parent. Only magical people can see the letters. Those marked H would be forced to work as servants or in unskilled jobs. The Ms would be stripped of magic with another potion - that one he hadn't finished yet, thank Merlin - and Obliviated. Then they'd be sent back to the Muggle world. The Purebloods would control everything else. He called it a...a non-violent solution for the evils infiltrating the wizarding world."

Hermione sat back, flabbergasted. All this time, this seemingly normal wizard had been down in a basement lab plotting the segregation of the wizarding community and the eradication of Muggleborns.

"But...but how did he plan to put this into effect? People aren't just going to drink some strange potion willingly. They're not that stupid."

"He has friends. Contacts. Just like Voldemort, only they don't march around in masks."

They knew too well how easily a coup could topple the government. They'd lived through it once already. And to think that time had been expected...

With the element of surprise, Pound could have wreaked serious havoc.

"That's why he went after Lucius so recklessly. His knowledge was dangerous. The ironic thing is, if he'd just left him alone, he never would have triggered the memory charm, and we'd never know..."

Now she knew why Harry had looked so upset. The mere fact that someone had been plotting to carry on Voldemort's legacy, however differently, was enough to unsettle him. That the world had Lucius to thank for bringing the plot to light would bother him even more.

Harry's green eyes were distraught. "It's never going to go away, is it, Hermione?"

She knew what he meant. The prejudice, the fear, the dark side of magic that had plagued so much of their youth... Hermione found her voice.

"People aren't perfect. Without perfect people, you can't have a perfect world."

"But after everything...don't people learn?"

She thought of all the Purebloods who had turned their backs on Lucius, and the younger ones who hadn't. "They have to be willing to learn."

Harry sighed, but he seemed satisfied with her answer. He ran a hand through his hair. "Well, at the very least, Pound is going to be in Azkaban for the rest of his life, and we're watching the people connected with him. Any wrong move and they'll be in there with him." After a pause, he said, "I'm sure you'll tell Lucius. I suspect the papers will be a little kinder after this."

* * *

She returned to the villa bursting with the news, but when she found Lucius, she knew that he needed silence. He was lying supine in their bed staring at the ceiling. His eyes were far away, his expression lost. He didn't notice her until she climbed into bed beside him.

Even then, he was very still. He was like this when something was chewing its way through his mind. Before, he might have raged, become manic, done something destructive...but he had stopped that kind of behavior since the incident in the sunflower field, preferring to lock himself away in this trance-like state to sort through his emotions. It was safer, but no less frightening, and she had seen too much of it lately.

Normally she just left him alone. Not today. Today she needed him. However strong she pretended to be in front of Harry, it disturbed her deeply that she still wasn't accepted in the wizarding world. She didn't want to believe that she would have to spend her whole life defending what she was, but Pound and his associates put a dent in her optimism.

Hermione turned over and gently climbed astride him. Lucius accepted her weight with a little sigh, his hands automatically moving to embrace her. They laid like that for a long time, front to front, watching the daylight fade from the room.

Her weight felt so good. Warm, solid, familiar...she was his and he hers, and he didn't mind, for there was no threat in it. A sensation of desire began to stir in him. He hadn't felt it in weeks. Just as when he'd first met her, stress and emotional upheaval had decimated any trace of a libido from him.

Hermione hadn't pressured him about it. He knew she missed the sex; he missed it, too, but his mind overwhelmed his body. In the past few weeks, he had begun to think very deeply about sex: what it had done to him, what he used it for, what it was supposed to be...and he had feared that turning to her physically would only be a regression to that time when sexuality was a defense mechanism, a way to regain a feeling of power or to absolve himself because he was powerless.

He had also feared that he would somehow hurt or frighten her if he made love to her with his mind beset with troubles. When he had relied on sex to reset his internal locus of control before, it had always been...rough, to put it mildly. They had engaged in rough sex before, and Hermione was equal to the task, but his mind had always been clear. He didn't trust himself now.

But this arousal felt different. It wasn't a desire for control, for a distraction, or even for physical pleasure. It was an intense need to connect. He couldn't drift around in the mire of his thoughts alone anymore.

Hermione was watching him. At last, he let his eyes focus on hers. They were always so warm, but today they held their own trace of turmoil. She never asked him in any great detail what troubled him; she knew that if he wanted to talk, he would - he trusted her enough to do that without the persuasion of a bottle of firewhiskey these days. Lucius would extend her the same courtesy now.

Words were not what they needed, anyway.

His eyes locked upon her, more open than they had been in a long time. Then, slowly, he tilted his chin up and touched his lips to hers. The sensation was exquisite like it had been that first time during the storm. So much needed to be said, but so little would be, and even if Jo-Jo interrupted them this time, she wouldn't stop.

Their kisses intensified as two overworked minds slowly shut down. Soon his tongue was tangling with hers, sliding, teasing, provoking hot stabs of arousal throughout her entire body. Though his lips were feverish, his touch was lazy, unhurried, remembering each line of her body.

Hermione pulled her mouth away, needing to reacquaint herself with some of her favorite nooks on his. Just below the corner of his jaw, where his carotid throbbed, the place where his neck met his shoulder and his natural scent was so strong, his fine ears...oh, yes, that at last provoked a little undulation of his hips and a marked increase in his breathing.

His skin was beginning to flush a soft pink as she undid the buttons on his shirt. His trousers followed, and as she tugged them down, his hands went for her blouse. She could tell that he wanted her as naked has he was. She helped him to make short work of her clothing and then they were gloriously free to rub against one another, after a few quick spells, of course.

She reveled in the hard press of his cock against her belly, the slide of his legs against hers as they entwined, and the way his hands worshipped her breasts. He was sucking a hard spot of need against her neck. Hermione slid her hands down to grip his buttocks, a low moan passing her lips as she anticipated how soon, they would be flexing as he thrust inside her...

Their foreplay was restless and passionate, full of questing hands and mouths that couldn't stay satisfied in any one place for very long. To her surprise, Lucius didn't protest when she slid down his body to take his cock in her mouth. It wasn't something he asked for or accepted very often, and when he did, his enjoyment was quiet, controlled, and brief.

Not today. It seemed to push him over the edge. He throbbed against her lips and his breathing became ragged. His hands wound into her hair, pressing her down, encouraging her to take more of him. Hermione did so eagerly. She loved his taste, his heat, and his obvious pleasure. He was so hard and she wanted him inside her, but she also wanted to keep sucking him as long as he would allow. She wanted to know what it was like to make him come this way.

A wordless moan escaped him. It told her that he wasn't far off. His hands were trembling slightly and she could feel the tension building in his thighs. She worked his shaft and head almost religiously, feeling her own arousal build with his. As he started chanting her name, she had to reach down and touch herself, moaning around him as her finger slid wetly over her clit.

A sharp tug at her hair brought her up for air. Hermione looked at Lucius with foggy eyes. His cheeks were rosy and a fine sweat graced his brow. His hair was already a mess, probably from his tendency to press his head back into the bed when he was enjoying himself.

"Do you want this?" he panted, a trace of uncertainty in his eyes.

She almost laughed at him. Was her hand between her thighs, dripping wet with her arousal, not enough to convince him? She touched that hand to his abdomen, letting him feel how turned on she was.

The uncertainty in his glance disappeared. Lucius closed his eyes and leaned back, his hand releasing her hair. Hermione smiled and returned to her task. A second later his hand wound back into her curls and he truly let himself go. He began to thrust shallowly against her questing mouth, seeking the release she gladly gave.

His orgasm was long and slow and shuddering. At first, he forgot to breathe. Then his breath rushed through his teeth in a hissing gasp. As he came, he finally made a sound she had not heard in a while - that half-shout, half-groan of pure hedonism. The combination of those noises, his taste, salty, sweet, masculine, new, and the insistent movement of her own hand brought her off so hard that she had to pull away from him to scream her pleasure to the ceiling.

She didn't see his eyes on her, watching as she rode out her orgasm. They were both experiencing something new, for he had not yet had the pleasure of watching her masturbate. There was never a time when he wasn't eager to assist her to her peak. This was no exception, but she didn't need him at this moment; her head was thrown back, her thighs splayed open, her nimble fingers tormenting her clit to the point of madness.

Lucius let her go, trying desperately to catch his breath. It proved impossible. Of course...why should he be able to catch his breath when his beautiful witch was touching herself right in front of him? In another moment, when he'd recovered enough to make his muscles work, he rose up onto his knees to meet her.

He wrapped an arm around her and snuck the other between their bodies. Lucius relieved her of her task and Hermione happily ceded, sighing and leaning against him. He kissed her before tilting her back onto the mattress. He would need a few minutes to rebound from the first orgasm, but he fully intended to try for a second.

He busied himself by kissing her until she was dizzy and breathless. Then he moved on to her breasts lest she pass out from lack of air. As he sucked and teased her nipples, he slid two fingers easily into her wetness. She was so hot and tight, and still wracked with little tremors left over from her self-induced orgasm.

He moved his hand slowly and deliberately, searching for that spot inside her. He felt euphoric. At last, at last he felt free, as if he had finally shed the asterisk that came along with sex. He was here, now, giving and receiving ecstasy solely out of love. That was more powerful than the sensation of control or submission, and his body flared with erotic energy.

That energy kept him going through Hermione's second orgasm, third, fourth, and even after his own, all he wanted to do was go, go, go, thrust and touch and kiss and suck, and Hermione let him until she began to suspect that any more would render her unable to walk, sit, or speak in the near future.

She could tell that something had changed in him. What, exactly, she had no idea, but it wasn't the time to ponder it, for she was so exhausted that she fell asleep practically the moment he released her. Lucius could only stare at the ceiling and smile stupidly before sleep got the better of him as well. Everything else was, for the time being, forgotten.


	32. Chapter 32

He was, as usual, awake before Hermione. Lucius had slept well. That didn't come as a surprise considering the activities of the night before; he was too exhausted to dream and too happy to worry. If only that feeling could be bottled. He'd spend every galleon he had on it.

He sighed and slipped from bed carefully so he wouldn't wake her. Once awake, he couldn't lie there; his mind would begin to run, run, run, and few of the paths it could take were good ones. He had to busy himself.

But with what? It was too early to go to England. He didn't dare return to Australia. There was no point in writing...

Lucius opened the shutters in the main room and flinched at the seasonably cold air. A quick spell took care of it, blocking the December breeze but still affording him the view he wanted. However, even that made him frown slightly; the land was yellow-brown and the sunflower field had gone brittle.

The scenery was still beautiful, but it appeared as if it was hibernating. Lucius had always liked winter because of the snow and because it afforded him the chance to wear his most comfortable and luxurious garments - cashmere, fur, heavy cloaks and gloves of butter-soft leather. There would be no snow here. It wasn't quite cold enough, unless one was in the mountains.

As much as he loved snow (few things were more beautiful than a fresh snowfall, undisturbed and sparkling under moonlight), he hated cold rain. It was irksome that a few degrees were the only difference between the two. And what a fine line it was between love and hate...

Lucius turned away from the window. All he had done was look outside and already his brain was starting to delve into things far too philosophical. For Merlin's sake, he needed a cup of tea before he could deal with that.

Instead of summoning Jo-Jo, he wandered down to the kitchen. He rarely made his own tea. Jo-Jo would likely want to flay him for doing it himself if she caught him in the act. Nonetheless, Lucius forged ahead and in a few minutes he was walking back up to the main room with a steaming cup of tea in hand.

He mused as he sipped it. It was, as it turned out, incredibly difficult to keep one's mind occupied all the time. Well, perhaps it was better to say that it was difficult to keep one's mind occupied with something other than what wanted to fill it - that might be more accurate. The common saying went mind over matter...but what was over mind?

The divine, perhaps. Lucius inhaled the fragrant steam and tried to do what he had preached to Hermione many months ago; he tried simply to exist, to feel without thought. For a few moments he was able to disappear into reminiscence, recalling other tranquil mornings where a cup of tea had been his only companion, but there were too few to distract him for long.

Sighing, he finished his tea and closed the shutters. His best distraction lay in the bedroom. He could spend an effortless hour or two just observing Hermione; memorizing her contours, mapping her being, appreciating the parts and the whole. He could look at her as he looked at art.

He eased into bed beside her, glad to be reintroduced the pocket of drowsy warmth beneath the blankets. Once there, he found that he didn't need to watch her, not now. A feeling of such incredible contentment washed over him. He moved to spoon against her, dropping an arm over her waist. Hermione stirred but didn't wake.

With his cheek resting against the wild spirals of her hair, he inhaled the scent of apples and Hermione until he dropped off into an unprecedented sleep.

* * *

It was impossible to tell what time it was when she woke. It was one of those days where the sun never broke through the clouds; the light was the same from dawn until dusk. Blinking, Hermione sat up.

Lucius's arm slipped from her waist, dropping onto the bed. It startled him awake.

"Mmm?" he said fuzzily.

"We slept in," she murmured. Then she tilted her head in awe. "_You_ slept in."

"Not really. I woke up and did a few things and then came back to bed."

She smiled. "Of course you did."

He was about to respond when a large yawn robbed him of his words. Hermione laughed and sank back down to the mattress, cuddling up against him.

"That's better," he mumbled.

To her surprise, his hands didn't roam, as they often did in the morning. Lucius seemed exceptionally relaxed. She hated to ruin that, but the need to relate all she had learned from Harry was overwhelming. The sooner he heard the whole story the better. Reading it in the news would only distort and sensationalize it.

"I need to tell you something."

"Does it involve how devastatingly attractive I am first thing in the morning?"

Oh, bugger. He was making jokes. This was the most cheerful he had been in some time. Hermione didn't have the heart to force him back to seriousness. Propping up on her elbow, she contemplated him and then pushed the real world into the back of her mind.

"As a matter of fact," she grinned, "it does."

Now his hands twined around her and abruptly pulled her astride him. Nimble fingers danced up her back, evoking a delightful shiver.

"Tell me more," he purred, and all of the previous afternoon's angst faded into the background.

* * *

After a lazy lovemaking session that was decidedly gentler than the night before, Hermione recalled that she ought to be studying for her exams. Incredibly, one semester was already gone. She wasn't anxious about her exams; however, studying was second nature to her and needed to be done lest she suffer a guilt-laden anxiety attack. Not for the first time, she wondered what it was like to be a person who was carefree enough to sit for an exam without studying. The thought made her shudder and Lucius looked up from his breakfast to give her a curious stare.

"My exams," she explained.

He nodded, unfazed. "I can help you study, if you like."

"No plans today?"

"Not at the moment."

"Then I may take you up on that offer." Though she had most often studied alone in school, she found that Lucius made a good partner because he was actually interested in the material. He pretended not to be, but she had caught him reading her textbooks more than once.

Just then, an owl pecked at the window. Lucius got up to let it in. Hermione frowned when she realized what it carried; the Prophet would beat her to the task of telling Lucius about Pound after all.

He didn't make it back to the table. He was so intent on the front page that he lost his ability to walk and read at the same time. After a long minute, he looked up at her.

"Is this what you were really going to tell me earlier?"

She nodded apologetically. "You were in such a good mood..."

With a sigh, he reclaimed his seat. Lucius skimmed the rest of the article and then put the paper down. "Well, it seems that I may have inadvertently done something right."

"I think people will ease up on you now."

Lucius offered her a darkly amused look. "They're suddenly going to forget that the only reason I knew about Pound is because I was one of his associates?"

Hermione had no response for that, save for the shred of hope she held in her heart. People did have long memories, but they also had the power to recognize that people could change and that some results were best accepted regardless of the method of arrival.

Lucius reached out to cover her hand with his. "Now I know why you were upset." He tugged her hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss across her knuckles. "Narrow-minded fools."

She couldn't help the ironic smile that broke across her lips. Lucius mirrored it, knowing that he was not so far removed from his own incarnation of narrow-minded foolery. Still, it meant a lot to her that he could now exclude himself from that group. Hermione found herself feeling unexpectedly teary and pulled her hand away.

"What about you?" she asked to cover the sudden surge of emotion. "What was bothering you yesterday?"

Lucius looked away for a moment. She could see a slight crease in his forehead and wondered if the answer would drive the good humor out of him. She was just starting to regret asking when he turned back and took a breath.

"I went to Australia to start clearing out my mother's estate. It was...difficult."

Hermione couldn't hide her surprise. That wasn't what she'd expected. He was brave to try to do it alone. Now she was the one reaching out to him, touching his cheek that was still rough with untamed morning stubble.

"You should have told me. I would have come with you."

He shook his head. "No. I don't want you near that part of my life." He smiled again, but it was a smile of resignation. "I'll be fine." He removed her hand from his jaw and pulled her to her feet. "Enough of this. Into the bath with you. We have places to go and things to do."

Hermione allowed herself to be herded toward the loo, confused by the sudden change of direction, but knowing that they both needed it.

"I thought you said you had no plans," she pointed out slyly.

"Now I do. And they involve you and I and a cottage in the Alps."

"But I have to study!" she protested.

"You can study there as easily as you can here."

Hermione gave him a slight glare, knowing full well that whatever he wanted to do in this cottage in the Alps likely didn't involve any of her books. He weathered her look and raised an eyebrow.

"Fine," she relented, "but if you don't let me study I'm going to my parents' house until after my exams!"

* * *

Lucius left the bath before she did. He needed a few minutes to clear his mind. It wasn't that he wanted to omit what he'd found at his mother's home. He just wasn't ready. If he had barely accepted it, how could he possibly explain it to someone else?

He almost laughed at himself. He was supposed to be a subtle person, but changing the subject so abruptly and proposing the trip to the Alps was about as unsubtle as it got. Hermione hadn't missed it, but for whatever reason, she let it slide.

But at least he'd get to enjoy some snow and a few days' respite from the madness that was his life. A moment later, Hermione emerged from the bath, her curls temporarily tamed by the water. He reached out to embrace her. She tensed, probably thinking that he meant to become amorous again, but all he did was grasp a fistful of those beautiful goddess curls and press them to his nose.

Apples.

Perfection.

He released her with a gentle pat to the bum. She danced away from him with a confused, half perturbed look on her face, but as she dressed, he could see the delicate flush across her cheeks.

Lucius had faced many frightening things in his time. None came close to this. None could even approach how scary it was to feel his heart so irrevocably intertwined with someone else's. And none could boast a mirroring sensation of absolute contentment...of fulfillment, centering, ease, bliss...

So this was love.

* * *

Hermione looked up as the wind howled and moaned, boxing the windows with angry fists. The storm outside was raging with an incredible force. She was thankful she and Lucius had made it here before it started and had enough sense to bring supplies. The cottage had electricity, but it would go out soon. They'd be left with candlelight, just like at home...

Candlelight and firelight; the tremendous fireplace consumed large logs that she couldn't even lift. It was heating up rapidly, promising to keep them warm through a long winter night in the mountains whether there was electricity or not. The only thing missing was a bear skin rug. Her lips tugged upward in tiny smile.

Then the smile receded. Hermione's eyes settled on Lucius. He had been so quiet since they arrived; it seemed he was sticking to his promise to allow her to study. In the meantime, all he had done was stare out the window. He was thinking.

She remembered how he loved storms, how the chaos outside calmed him, and hoped that it could push his thoughts in a positive direction. It was times like these that she missed their mental bond; those little snippets of telepathic dialogue had told her so much about him. If not for that glimpse into his mind, she never would have been able to get to this point. She never would have been able to love him.

Strange surges of emotion had been catching her off guard all week. First at the breakfast table when he'd expressed out loud how he felt about the ideals he once embraced. Then again when he'd stopped her to smell her hair. The look on his face...it was one of such potent relief. It was the look of a man who knew he was safe.

And now, watching him as he endured long hours of silence so that she could study uninterrupted, she was again ambushed by the feeling of tightness in her chest. It made her dizzy. Hermione was more inclined to believe that she'd developed some kind of heart arrhythmia, but even her rational mind knew what it really was.

At that moment, the lights flickered and died.

* * *

They'd gone to bed without knowing what time it was; the night remained the same outside regardless of the hour. The wind howled, snow fell in thick waves, and all around them the sound of pines groaning under the burden of both punctuated the cacophony.

Lucius fell asleep almost immediately after they transported the mattress out into the main room so that the fire could keep them warm. Hermione didn't know how he could sleep with all the noise and violence going on beyond the walls. But sleep he did, without stirring.

Eventually she slept, too, lulled by the rhythm of his breathing and the pulsing heat of the fire. She dreamt of body parts, multicolored pills and potions, and that she was snapping a person together like a child's blocks, every bone, every muscle, arteries and veins, skin, hair...

Hermione jerked awake. The blanket slithered down her torso, exposing her to the winter air. The fire was down to embers and she instantly regretted sitting up. However, the reaction couldn't be faulted; she had realized somewhere around the eyes that she was assembling Lucius.

Lucius, who wasn't beside her. Was it morning? How could it be? It was still so dark, though the wind outside had calmed.

She thought about rising from the mattress, wincing at how cold it was. The fire needed to be stoked, and soon, whether it was morning or not. Just then, Lucius's figure stepped into the doorway. He strode forward and crouched down, placing a gentle kiss against her lips.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to let it go out." Evidently, he thought that she had awakened because of the cold.

"What time is it?" she asked, still disoriented.

"I don't know."

"Come back to bed."

She saw a slight hesitation in his eyes, but then he nodded. "After I restart the fire."

Hermione watched him levitate the large cords of wood into the hearth and use his wand to light them. Then, once he was satisfied, he shed his extra layers and slipped under the pile of covers beside her. She burrowed against him, grateful for his body heat while the fire struggled to fill the room once more.

"What were you doing?" she asked after a few minutes of contented silence.

He didn't respond immediately. Then he said, "Writing."

Hermione felt a visceral sense of relief. He was meant to write regardless of whether or not his scribblings ever saw the light of day.

"Soif?"

"No. I still don't know how to end it."

Hermione twined a piece of his very straight, very soft hair between her fingers. "Something new?"

"Not new." He kissed her forehead. "But I'm not in any rush with this one. I'm just going to let it happen."

"That's how you'll find the ending of Soif, too. One day, it will just happen," she replied drowsily.

"Maybe," he murmured. "Now go to sleep. If the storm is over by morning, we have to go shopping for Christmas gifts."

Hermione groaned. So there was a price for his silence earlier - he meant to drag her along while he looked for gifts for his family. She knew she had to do the same, but her parents were easy to please; a nice dinner out or a little oddity from the wizarding world was enough. She could only imagine what it would take to satisfy Draco.

She couldn't resist a jab. "What haven't you given Draco?"

"Oh, I don't know, a well-adjusted childhood, morals and values, enough hugs..."

Hermione laughed and slapped his arm, and then allowed that small bit of mirth to carry her into a more restful slumber.

* * *

Christmas was an awkward affair on both sides. Hermione was reminded of Mad-Eye Moody every time she opened her mouth; only constant vigilance enabled her to stop herself from talking about Lucius. Her parents were happily oblivious, though perhaps not as oblivious as she thought. Her mother kept giving her sly looks and dropped a few questions that Hermione had not heard since the time she mistakenly brought Ron to the house to meet them.

The Burrow was even worse. Ron was civil, as were most of the Weasleys, but it went downhill when Percy started to hit on her. Harry dutifully rescued her, yet she could see in his eyes that he still thought she belonged here and not with Lucius. He was good enough not to say anything, and for a few zany hours, it felt like old times.

On the other hand, Lucius had to sit through a Manor Christmas that was caught in transition. Narcissa had invited Dawlish. That resulted in Draco throwing his father meaningful and increasingly violent looks every time his mother interacted with the Auror - who was, of course, seated to her right, so that meant they interacted quite a lot. He would be surprised if Draco didn't have whiplash by the end of the meal.

He would also be surprised if Draco still had a girlfriend by the time all was said and done. His irritation over Narcissa daring to bring Dawlish into their family time caused him to ignore the pretty redhead he'd invited to dinner. However, the redhead seemed distracted enough on her own; she, too, had roving eyes, and seemed uncomfortable.

Lucius was carefully aloof, making conversation when it was appropriate and ignoring all else. He'd have to take Draco aside between courses and tell him that he didn't care that Dawlish was here. Though Merlin only knew if Draco was really angry over the perceived slight to his father or if he was jealous that Dawlish was drawing his mother's attention away from him...

Lucius chuckled and speared another carrot. They were out of their minds, but this only made him love his family more. Ah, there was Draco's look again - Dawlish had dared to compliment Narcissa's earrings. He smiled at his son and promptly kicked him in the shin.

"Ow!"

All eyes turned to Draco.

"What's the matter, darling?" Narcissa said.

"Nothing," Draco muttered darkly. "Just bit my tongue."

* * *

They reconvened on Boxing Day, both a little shell-shocked. Lucius tried not to make a face at her lumpy Weasley sweater (shabbier than usual this year) and Hermione controlled her comments about Draco. Instead, they sipped tea in bed and silently thanked Merlin that Christmas was over.

"That girl in forensics," Lucius spoke up suddenly, "the one who was blackmailing you. What was her name?"

"Marietta Edgecombe. Why?"

He laughed, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling merrily. "My son is dating her."

Hermione almost spit out her tea. "WHAT?"

"I wanted to reserve my shunning until I was certain it was her. Shall I tell Draco to look elsewhere?"

Hermione blinked, still in shock. What in the hell? Why would Marietta date Draco? Was it some kind of scheme?

"How did she look?" she asked.

Lucius gave her a strange glance. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, how did she look?"

"She's pretty enough, I suppose. What on earth are you getting at?"

"Was there anything on her face?"

"Besides eyes, a nose, and a mouth?"

She elbowed him in the side. "Answer the question!"

Lucius recoiled from her attack, unsure why he was being assaulted. "She looked normal. She has freckles. Anything else you'd like to know? The location of her birthmark, perhaps?"

_She looks normal_. Then the countercurse worked. Marietta had finally apologized for her betrayal back in school, and she had meant it - it only worked when the apology was real.

"Hermione?" Lucius prompted.

"No," she said slowly, "don't say anything to Draco." Hermione frowned, disturbed by a thought which she voiced a moment later. "They might be perfect for each other."

* * *

A few countries away, a blond and a redhead were awakening to a blustery Boxing Day. Draco watched Marietta struggle to pry herself from sleep and couldn't keep the smile off his face. Clearly she wasn't a morning person.

He had worked up the courage to talk to her a few days after the second sighting at the Ministry. She seemed different than the first time. She was...brighter, more alive, and he began to notice things. Things that he liked. Her eyes were green, and though he had never liked redheads, her hair was such a fascinating color.

He knew he was in trouble when he started to notice her figure. Or when he caught himself staring at her chest during their sixth late-night coffee date. Especially when he began to feel the need to make her smile as much as possible.

Two weeks later she brought him down to the forensics lab to show him her office. He should have known what would happen. She was the only one who worked later hours; the lab was deserted. It was just him, her, and lots of ominous looking devices.

Naturally, it ended in them snogging like fifth years that night and every night after. The connection between them was so strong that all he wanted to do was kiss her. When he wasn't kissing her, he wanted to talk to her, and when he wasn't talking to her, he just wanted to look at her.

But then he'd invited her to Christmas at the Manor. He could tell she was anxious about it. She wouldn't explain why, and even though he told her she didn't have to go, she said she would. Then the debacle with Dawlish, and the fact that there was no reciprocation of a Christmas invite to her family's gathering...he thought the brief bout of giddiness was over.

He was ready to escort her out the door and out of his life by the end of the evening - that was how most of his dates ended these days. However, Marietta smartly informed him that she would be staying for the night, and he'd best smuggle her to his room before his parents noticed and put a stop to such deplorable behavior. Draco couldn't claim to understand her behavior, but he wouldn't fight it.

Sex had felt so good. It wasn't perfect; there were moments of awkwardness, a bumped head or two, but he didn't feel any pressure with her. There had always been pressure with others - expectation, status, reputation, and all that rot. Marietta didn't seem to care about any of that.

Nor did she seem to care about waking up. And really, it was eight in the morning. What was the harm in lazing in bed?

* * *

Narcissa let out a sharp gasp when she saw the signature on the bottom of the card. The owl that delivered it had awakened her much earlier than she wanted, but it was worth it. Oh, this was so worth it.

Blinking, she put the card down on the nightstand and read it again, just to make sure that her mind had not deceived her.

_Narcissa,_

_I've been thinking about your visit a lot. It took a great deal of courage to admit you were wrong, and even more to face me. In the end I was the one who took the easy way out. I chose to perpetuate the rift between us. While that is the more comfortable solution, it doesn't change anything, and I'm certain that your visit and my inability to stop thinking about it mean that neither of us is happy with things as they are._

_In the Muggle world, Christmas is considered a time where the best aspects of humanity are brought forth, and prime among those is forgiveness. If you can forgive me for betraying and shaming our family, I can forgive you for only doing what you were taught all these years. Now that we're old (a widow and a divorcee!), I'd like to think that we've accrued enough wisdom to recognize what's really important. Not grudges, not antiquated ideals, not old petty squabbles..._

_We are sisters. And while we were never the best of friends, I would rather have a sister than an enemy. We've already lost one sister and two cousins. Truly, we can't afford to lose each other._

_I know that this is your first Christmas without a husband, and though it's not for the same reason as me, it can be lonely nonetheless. If you find yourself longing for a distraction, it would be wonderful to meet for lunch. I'll be at Veronique's Vittles in Diagon Alley around noon. Whether you decide to come or not, I'll be there - their croque-monsieur is to die for._

_Happy Christmas._

_Andromeda_

With the confirmation that she had not hallucinated the whole thing, Narcissa promptly burst into tears.

* * *

Hermione emerged from the loo to find an elegantly wrapped gift box sitting on her side of the bed.

"I thought we agreed not to exchange gifts!"

Lucius had the grace to look the slightest bit guilty. "I was raised a certain way. I can't help it. It's good form."

"Now I don't have one for you!" she seethed, annoyed. She climbed back into bed, clutching the box with a distressed look on her face.

"I don't need anything." He smiled. "You've already given me so much."

Her expression softened, exactly as it was meant to. A moment later Hermione gave him a dirty look; she knew him too well. Lucius chuckled. Though it had been a calculated statement, he meant every word of it, and he was certain that she knew it.

"You Malfoys," she grumbled as she untied the ribbon, "do you have some unknown curse that causes you to die if you don't spend money?"

"No. We just like to spoil ourselves and the few others that we deem worthy of our time."

"Snobby git."

He nudged her with his foot. "Open it."

"This better not be more ridiculously expensive lingerie."

"It isn't. I'm saving that for Valentine's Day."

She gave him a look that said 'don't you dare'. Then, with a cringe at the thought of ruining the pretty paper, she began to dismantle the box. A minute later her eyes widened.

"Oh..."

Inside the box was an antique doctor's satchel straight out of the 19th century. Eagerly, Hermione flipped the brass latch that held it closed. Inside was a mixture of magical and Muggle medical tools. Amusingly, both looked rather horrifying. Hermione examined an antique syringe, amazed that anyone had ever let some quack stick them with it. Then again, people also let doctors put leeches on them in the olden days, so there was nothing to be done for it.

She was struck by how alike the Muggle and magical medicines looked. An antique tonic bottle from a Muggle apothecary was almost indistinguishable from a beautiful Pepper-Up Potion bottle. Perhaps back then the lines between scientific and magical medicine had been a little blurrier.

"I have your word that you'll never use any of those on me, correct?" Lucius said.

Hermione held up a scalpel with a handle carved out of ivory. "Where did you get it all?"

"I took a trip with Paolo to find the Muggle things while you were at your exams. The wizarding artifacts were easy enough to find in the antiques section of Diagon Alley."

Carefully, Hermione replaced all the items and closed the bag. "You miserable man, you agreed that we wouldn't exchange gifts when you already had one for me!"

A smile tugged the corner of his mouth. "Someday, if you ever have children, you'll know what it's like to try to disagree with you."

And it was meant to be humorous, to cleverly tell her just how stubborn she was, but Hermione saw his face falter for one quick second.

* * *

There were invitations. Lucius looked at the five pieces of parchment, stunned that anyone would invite him to a New Year's Eve party. He had not fielded any social interest in a good while, and certainly not from so many people he'd never met.

He showed them to Hermione, wondering if she knew any of his potential hosts or hostesses. Four were strangers to her, as well, and for the fifth, she personally delivered the ostentatious invitation to the trash.

"Why not the Vanes?" he chided. "They sound charming."

"Their daughter tried to poison Harry into falling in love with her sixth year. You could call her charming if you were using Bellatrix Lestrange as your model."

"Say no more."

In the end, they spent the evening with Paolo and Elisabetta and were so drunk on champagne that neither had any idea how they made it back to the villa.

* * *

The holidays passed in a blur of joyful madness. Lucius couldn't remember the last time it felt that way; perhaps it hadn't since Draco was very young. Everything was much simpler then.

As January settled in, Hermione went back to her classes. That left him to amuse himself once more. It was no easy task, and two hours into that first Monday, he realized just how much he missed her.

He had been relying on her to cushion his mind. It was easy to be distracted by how much he cared for her. Now he understood in very great detail why some people acted so senseless when it came to love; it became like nourishment, and with it, one needed little else.

It still frightened him. This depth of feeling had only ever taken hold of him once before, and that was when his son was born. That was...transcendent. It had jerked him violently out of whatever darkness he inhabited and thrust him into a brilliant world of possibilities. It was the first time he felt that he'd done something truly great. No...it was the first time in a very long while that he'd felt a seedling of hope take root.

Hope was dangerous. Dangerous and beautiful, and probably the only reason he was alive today. The cynic in him thought it quite foolish to hold on to something so slim, but without it, there was nothing to hold on to at all.

What would happen to him if Hermione...

No, he wouldn't think about it.

But he couldn't stop himself from thinking. What if she left? What if something happened to her? What if...

Lucius knew he was torturing himself. But, as everyone knew but seldom spoke of, along with love came a paralyzing fear of loss. His was worse, so much worse, because this was the first time he had ever cared for or needed someone so deeply. His protective instincts told him to run, because that which he couldn't control would inevitably do something he didn't want.

He was regressing. Hadn't he denounced all these things? Where was the man of a few months ago, the one who vowed never to give in to fear? The one who ceded his control and surrendered himself to circumstance and fate? All of it had brought him to this level of happiness. Why couldn't he be content with it?

Because he couldn't trust it. Every other time he had approached this kind of tranquillity, it had been snatched out from under him like a magician's white tablecloth. In his eyes, it just couldn't last. Nothing this good was meant to...

And suddenly the villa was suffocating. With his head throbbing, he groped for his coat and stumbled out onto the path. He needed air, sun, wind - something bigger than himself.

* * *

It was not often that he found a pale Englishman on his porch. Paolo approached, recognizing that his friend was upset about something. He had to be if he was sitting outside in January in front of a house that wasn't his own. He wondered how long Luciano had been sitting there.

Wordlessly, he let the other man in. The blond moved behind him like a ghost. Paolo busied himself with the preparation of hot beverages. His first instinct was coffee, but considering his guest, he changed his mind and dug in the cupboard for their meager supply of tea.

It didn't really matter. Luciano wasn't here for that. He brought the steaming mugs to the living room and sat across from his friend, ready to wait him out.

It didn't take long; the tea thawed Lucius's hesitation.

"Do you ever...worry that you will lose Elisabetta?"

Paolo watched the patterns of steam billowing from his mug for a long moment and then looked up. "No."

"How?" Lucius said. "_How_?"

"I just know that nothing will cause that to happen."

"But what about things you can't control? What if something was to happen to her? Or what if you grew apart, had a fight that couldn't be resolved...what if she meets someone else?" The questions tumbled out of him with manic speed.

"If you grow apart, can't resolve a fight, or cause her to want to look at anyone else, you aren't doing your job."

"What?"

"Being in love...it isn't just a given. It changes like everything else. Both of you have to work at it. Honestly, it is hard enough to love yourself sometimes, yes? It isn't meant to be easy to love someone else. That's the beauty of it. That's what makes it so great."

"Great?" Lucius said softly. "I'm a wreck. I can't stop thinking that I'm going to do something to derail it, or that it's just an illusion." He looked at the floor for a moment. "Or worse, that I won't do anything wrong at all and she'll just...move on."

"I don't think Hermione would do that." The sound of Paolo's quiet chuckle made Lucius raise his head. "You are in deep, my friend, but she is right there beside you."

"For now," he murmured. "But what about the day she wakes up and realizes that I'm an old man? An old man who can't give her everything she wants or deserves..."

"Is there someone out there who you think would be better for her?"

Paolo's pointed question made some creature inside him flare with...well, he didn't know exactly what it was, but the mere idea of Hermione being happy with someone else made him want to peel flesh from bones. Perhaps that was exactly why she shouldn't be with him...

"Well, is there?" Paolo prompted.

In spite of the fact that Lucius had tormented himself with a million examples of why he was wrong for her, he had never gone so far as to consider who might be right. His friend took his silence as the negation that it was.

"She is a very smart woman, Luciano. She can make her own choices and she wants you." Paolo shook his head. "But I know how you feel. When I met Elisabetta...I felt that she was so good, so beautiful that I couldn't compare even on my best days. It took a long time to realize that she felt the same way about me." He reached out to grasp Lucius's shoulder. "Spare yourself the anxiety and just accept that some things are meant to be, even if they seem surreal. Stop talking yourself out of it."

Lucius looked at his friend, amazed once more at how much this simple Muggle man knew. Lucius was learned in so many things - history, art, all forms of magic, mathematics, magical sciences - but he was lost on life. It wasn't the first time that he felt like he was nearly 46 years old with not a shred of wisdom in him.

Paolo looked back at him, and for a moment his face fell.

"It's criminal that you haven't felt this kind of love until now."

Lucius swirled the remnants of his now-cold tea. As tea went, it was awful, but he appreciated Paolo's thoughtfulness. More than that, he appreciated how exposed he could be with the other man; this kind of friendship just couldn't exist in the wizarding world. He wore too many masks.

"I suppose it's better late than never," he replied.

* * *

Harry put the Prophet down in annoyance. Lately, the papers had been a Malfoy bonanza. It seemed like every week the elder Malfoy was recalling some gruesome Death Eater activity and pointing the Aurors toward graves and answers to questions that had been lingering for years. Harry had mixed feelings on the matter. He knew that the families of those who were finally being laid to rest appreciated what Lucius was doing, but it was never far from his mind that Lucius had played a part in it. Even if he hadn't participated, he had been there, and watching it happen passively was at least as bad. The only thing that kept him from penning a scathing editorial was the look on Malfoy's face in the pictures. It wasn't the smug, self-satisfied look Harry knew from his youth. The man looked drained. Regret was written all over him in bold strokes.

It wasn't just Lucius in the news. While it was mildly heartwarming to see that Andromeda had reconciled with her sister Narcissa, who, he supposed, was technically no longer a Malfoy, it irked him that they were still deemed important enough to be news. Draco, especially.

The idiot appeared to be dating Marietta Edgecombe. Harry felt nothing but disgust for the girl who had betrayed Dumbledore's Army. It was obvious that Draco had finally found the one person in the world more spineless than him and Harry wanted to vomit at the thought.

What surprised him was that Hermione didn't seem to mind it. Considering who she was cohabitating with, and what Marietta had tried to do to them, Hermione ought to be angry. There should have been some bizarre urge to protect Draco - it would have saved Harry the need to feel it himself.

He groaned and let his forehead drop onto the newsprint. What was the world coming to?

* * *

Narcissa looked slightly ruffled, but it seemed she had survived her first Teddy babysitting duty with minimal damage. Andromeda smiled as Teddy zoomed into her arms and proceeded to babble deliriously about how much fun he and Auntie Cissy had. Sometimes it was easy for her to forget that Narcissa was a mother, also.

* * *

"You've gained about a stone since you started seeing Hermione," his healer said in a very serious tone.

Lucius glanced up from buttoning his shirt. "Are you going to tell me I need to go on a diet after three years of pestering me to eat more?"

Tiresias grinned. "No."

* * *

Hermione had elected to stay in Florence for the duration of her education as a Healer. She already had friends there and it felt like home. Perhaps it wasn't the most prestigious program, but it did have a good reputation (how could any university once funded by Galen not?) and it would give her what she needed.

More than anything else, she liked that it was a well-rounded program. It wasn't only about the conditions of the mind and body. Now that she had finished her prerequisites, she was studying the philosophy of medicine, as well as its history and the many different incarnations it had taken on throughout history, both Muggle and magical. It was easy to memorize books full of diseases. What wasn't easy was to have a thorough and fruitful understanding of the profession she was embarking upon. Hermione loved it.

"Did you know," she said to Lucius one evening, "that Hippocrates had a son named Draco?"

Lucius smiled at the enthusiasm that had been bubbling over in her as she learned more and more. "See? It's a name chosen by men of great intelligence and taste."

Hermione snorted, deciding not to inform him that it was also a name chosen by men who liked to dissect monkeys in their spare time.

* * *

By mid-February, Lucius had been able to calm many of the demons in his mind. He was happiest when he stayed out of the spotlight. That was easy to do as long as he avoided England. The media couldn't find him at the villa because it was Unplottable and he had enabled direct floo travel between the villa and the Manor - but only for himself, to avoid any potential disasters. He still met Draco for brunch on Saturdays; they had unanimously agreed that it was best to hide in the hustle and bustle of Muggle London rather than brave Diagon Alley.

Aside from that, he had begun to write more and quietly invest his money. There were still the occasional trips to the Ministry to inform them of something he had remembered, but the pace of his recall had slowed. It seemed that the first few weeks after the memory charm was broken were the worst.

He was endlessly thankful that Narcissa was doing whatever she was doing with Dawlish. The Auror really was an amicable man and being able to report to him saved Lucius from having to face Kingsley Shacklebolt. He hated the Minister and it seemed that the feeling was mutual, as Shacklebolt was always mysteriously "out" when Lucius made the journey to the Ministry.

Indeed, the one thing Lucius hadn't been able to come to terms with was his father's letter. It invaded his thoughts whenever he became too idle. It drove him to the point that he had to read it again to try to exorcise it. Once he did, he didn't feel the same way he had the first time; there were no abrupt emptyings of his stomach, but he still felt a shaky queasiness that made him jumpy for the rest of the day.

One thing stood out. His father had written that he applied to the Ministry for a Time Turner. Lucius found that hard to believe; no matter how repentant his father had felt, it wasn't in his nature to jeopardize his family's outward appearance or reputation. Placing an account of his son's assault and his own dismal parenting on public record should have been unthinkable. And how would he have done it, anyway, when he was so ill?

All the same, he didn't want to believe that his father had lied to him in what was possibly the most sincere moment of his life. Why would he put that detail in there if he hadn't done it? It drove Lucius to madness. Since being with Hermione, he had begun to appreciate when people just spoke directly, though heaven knew he had a hard time doing that himself.

On the first of March, he sat staring out the window at the awakening Tuscan spring. He was making no progress with writing; his mind kept drifting. As much as he hated the thought of going into the heart of magical London, he was getting to the point where he had to know. He had to know if his father had really gone through the trouble of trying to change his son's future by any means possible.

With a sigh, Lucius closed the shutters. It was time to put his mind to rest. In the bedroom, he pulled on his familiar armor - robes, cloak, gloves, cane - and prepared for a trip into the belly of the beast.

* * *

He was stopped no less than three times in the attempt to get down to the Department of Mysteries. Lucius understood why, but he felt his temper fraying beneath the surface. He was here for a legitimate reason, not to plunder their secrets for a master he wished he'd never met, and he had served his time for his indiscretions.

Unfortunately, Dawlish was out on assignment. The Auror couldn't help him. So, Lucius found himself sitting in the office of Magical Law Enforcement, listening to the two Aurors on duty arguing over whether or not he was allowed into the Department of Mysteries. At least they weren't trying to arrest him. However, the ruckus had attracted the press.

When Harry Potter walked in, stumbling from having to push through a dozen reporters, Lucius knew he was either saved or doomed. The irritation on the young man's face was obvious.

"Bloody leeches!" he seethed before realizing that Lucius was sitting there.

"We agree on something," Lucius commented neutrally.

Potter frowned, embarrassed at being overheard. Then he sighed. "I suppose this is for you? What lovely Death Eater antics have you remembered now?"

"I'm not the one making the fuss," Lucius replied, carefully controlling his temper. "Your colleagues dragged me in here as I was trying to make my way down to the Department of Mysteries."

Harry glanced toward the other room, where the other Aurors were still arguing. "What do you need down there?" Mistrust was plain in his question.

"I've told them ten times already. It's come to my attention that my father may have put in a Time Turner request prior to his death. It involved me, and I believe that gives me the right to view the request...should it actually exist."

A long moment passed in which Potter thought, eyes scouring the other wizard. He, like Lucius, knew that Time Turner requests were held to the same rules as Prophecies - only those who made them and those who they concerned were able to view them, as well as the Unspeakables who tended them. The Unspeakables weren't able to discuss anything they saw down in the Department of Mysteries outside its doors. Therefore, Lucius was the only one who could address the question. Only a pair of stubborn Aurors and a lift stood between him and the answer.

"I've also reminded them that no term of any sentence I may have received in the past forbade me from entering the Department of Mysteries again, as long as it is during regular working hours." Lucius looked at his pocket watch. "It's 11:08 and I am happy to have an escort if that would make everyone feel better. Yet here I sit."

There was a very long pause. Harry glanced once more at the Aurors, who were completely oblivious to the fact that he had even come in, let alone Lucius. If he had been more daring, Lucius could have walked out without them even noticing. Harry was sure the other wizard didn't want to rock the boat and that was why he stayed, not-so-patiently waiting for a decision.

Though he was loathe to help Malfoy in any way, this was the in he needed to issue his warning about Marietta. He couldn't approach Draco and tell him that his girlfriend was a deceitful wench - that rarely went over well. However, he could discretely drop a hint or two to Lucius. He had the feeling that Lucius had a better chance of convincing Draco to lose her.

"All right," he said. "Come with me."

* * *

After a curt discussion with the other two Aurors in which Harry had more or less steamrolled them with his status as Boy Who Conquered, he escorted Lucius to the lift. Lucius watched the dark-haired wizard out of the corner of his eye. It seemed he had finally learned how to use the power of his position. He resisted the urge to make a comment as the lift doors closed.

As the lift started to descend, it was Harry who spoke up.

"Marietta Edgecombe...that girl that Draco's seeing. She's not exactly known for her loyalty."

"So I've heard," Lucius replied.

"I take it Hermione has filled you in?"

"Not entirely."

"She'll run the minute things get difficult. She'll sell Draco out to save her own skin."

Lucius turned to him, a half-incredulous look on his face. "Are you concerned about the welfare of my son?"

Harry stood up straighter, inspecting the lift as if it were a work of art. "No. I'd just hate to see another person get stabbed in the back by her."

"Hermione has told me to give her the benefit of the doubt for now. She believes Ms. Edgecombe has changed. But make no mistake, I am watching her very carefully."

The lift pinged.

"Level 9. Department of Mysteries."

Neither made a move to step out right away.

"Draco has changed, too," Lucius continued quietly. "A great deal. And I confess I am now convinced of the power of second chances. Still, I will take your warning into consideration. Some changes are more complete than others."

With that, Lucius strode from the lift, leaving Harry to follow after him in baffled silence.

* * *

There was a library in the Department of Mysteries. Neither Harry nor Lucius had known this before. Upon hearing Lucius's request, a hooded Unspeakable instructed them to sit at a table and wait while he looked for the document in question.

Long minutes passed. Harry couldn't think of anything to say and Lucius didn't seem troubled by the quiet. There was a tension in the blond's face that told Harry that the answer to this question was very important to him. He burned to know what Malfoy's father had wanted a Time Turner for, but knew better than to ask.

After what had to be a half hour, the Unspeakable returned. He held a thin folder in his hands. He placed it in front of Lucius on the table and then turned to Harry.

"I'm sorry, Auror Potter, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Harry didn't argue. With one last look at Malfoy, who had gone very white, he made his way back to the lift.

* * *

"Take as much time as you need. I will be nearby. Just call out when you're done."

With those final words, Lucius was alone. Alone with the evidence that his father had, in fact, gone against everything he'd ever stood for in a desperate attempt to prevent the worst moment of his son's life. It was difficult to breathe.

At last, he made himself look. He had come all the way here, endured cameras in his face, people shouting questions at him, obnoxious Aurors, an uncomfortable interaction with Potter, and his own damned curiosity, for this moment. He would not walk away without reading the document.

Form DM-3a

Time Turner Request

Name: _Abraxas S. Malfoy_

Gender: _Male_

Date of Birth: _18 October 1925_

Wizarding Identification Number (WIN): _012-580_

Residence: _Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire_

Occupation: _Businessman, Ministry liaison_

Have you ever been convicted of a crime other than minor broom traffic violations (anything prior to age 16 need not apply)? _No_

If so, please describe: _N/A_

Date of Request: _20 May 1989_

Date of Destination (DD/MM/YYYY): _07/07/1966_

Reason for Request:

(Please print clearly and express in detail the basis of your request. If too little information is provided, the request will be rejected.)

_I wish to go back to prevent the traumatic sexual assault of my son. He was on the above date accosted by a male predator and brutally abused. At the time my son was nine years of age. I did not become aware of this until two days ago (18 May 1989). Under great duress the House Elves that attended to him in the past admitted that he was seriously injured but too frightened to tell anyone. One elf has agreed to provide a record of the events for a pensieve if necessary. I believe this assault impacted my son grievously and continues to do so to this day._

Would you like to declare a designee? _Yes_

Name and WIN of designee: _Lucius Malfoy 409-683_

Your Signature: _Abraxas S. Malfoy_

This form is confidential; only the requester and designated persons may access it. Evaluation of requests takes a minimum of 10 business days. Some may take longer if a decision cannot be reached by initial arbiters. If you are unhappy with your results, you may appeal thirty days after your decision is handed down. Only one appeal is allowed per request. After placing a request, whether it is approved or not, there is a blackout period of 90 days before you may place a new request.

Should you be approved, all regulations are strictly enforced. The penalties for misuse of a Ministry time-turner range from a 2000 galleon fine to life in Azkaban.

Lucius squeezed his eyes shut. He had sworn those elves to secrecy. His father must have threatened them with freedom if they didn't tell him what they knew. It had crossed Lucius's mind later on, when he was older and more capable, that he should have altered the Elves' memories, but some unknown thing had stopped him.

He slipped the parchment back into the folder. On the front of the folder there was a stamp.

Office use only

**DATE**: 17/06/1989

**FAVORABLE OUTCOME PERCENTILE (FOP**): 91%

**DECISION**:

APPROVED

**CONDITIONS**:

Not be seen, no harm to attacker

**NOTES**: CANCEL

Requester deceased 15/06/1989

He had to turn the folder over. Two days. His father had died two days before his request was approved. Forty-eight hours separated the life Lucius could have had from the one he did have.

For a while he could only sit there in a daze. Then, as he began to be able to process coherent thoughts again, he wondered what would have happened if his father had held on just a little bit longer. He would have dragged his wasted, pox-laden body to the Ministry swaddled in protective clothing, come down to this cavernous place, and gone back...back 23 years to save the son he barely knew.

Without a doubt, Abraxas would have killed that Muggle. What threat was life in Azkaban to him? He would have died a few days later anyhow. But how different a death it would have been...

Lucius stood up. He had questions.

"Hello?" he called out, hoping the Unspeakable had not given up on him.

A minute later, a hooded figure emerged from the dimly lit bookshelves. "All finished, sir?"

"No. I have a few questions. My father put me on here as a designee. What does that mean?"

"It means that you are approved to carry out the request in his stead, if necessary."

"This request was placed eleven years ago. Is it still applicable?"

"Well, you'd have to resubmit it. Circumstances have changed since then, understandably, and we would have to recalculate the outcome percentile to determine whether it can be approved or not."

Yes, that mysterious Favorable Outcome Percentile, which, on his father's request, had been 91%. "What is the outcome percentile? How is it determined?" Lucius asked.

"Very complex arithmancy equations are used to find the likelihood of one particular episode of time travel playing out favorably. Surely you've heard how sticky time travel can be. We can't allow just anyone to go back to do whatever they wish. That's why the equations are used. Anything that comes out over 90% is usually approved."

Ah. That was why it took so long. Lucius could only imagine the number of variables that went into those equations.

"And under 90%?"

"Almost never approved. Even ten percent room for error is too much, as far as some are concerned." The Unspeakable tilted his head. "Are you interested in resubmitting this request, Mr. Malfoy?"

He told himself he was doing it out of curiosity. That it would never be approved. That, with his criminal record, they'd be more likely to laugh and throw it in the trash than bother with the equations. After all, how favorably could a man deterring his own rapist end up?

"Yes."


	33. Chapter 33

It was strange resubmitting the request. As he copied it, choosing to preserve his father's wording rather than add his own, Lucius didn't feel that he _wanted_ to do it. He felt that he needed to. Something was pushing him inexorably toward this.

Fate? No, he wouldn't think about that. It would only give him a migraine.

They would never approve the request, anyhow. It was a miracle they had approved it the first time around. Though, for all he knew, they had simply waited for Abraxas to die and then made a decision in the hopes that they would not look like heartless bastards for denying a father the chance to save his son. It would be Dragon Pox that denied him, not the Ministry.

But there were so many variables in that equation. He wondered whether or not they calculated the designee into it. How did they reconcile a request if two different people were eligible to carry it out?

He put the quill down for a moment. What if that percentile...what if it had not been for his father? What if the equations knew he would die, and the 91% was for Lucius carrying out the time travel? How in the hell did they differentiate?

He was already giving himself a migraine. Lucius picked up the sheet of parchment and stared at it. There was no designee on this version, and this time it was his signature at the bottom. His handwriting could not have been more different than his father's.

His hands were shaking. Was it worth it? Was this really what he wanted to do? Was there truly a point in dredging up the past, in feeding the spark of some hope that was, in reality, a hope for the unknown?

He wondered how many men and women had used time travel for things like this. More than that, he wondered if they were happy afterwards. Did a person who completed a mission with a Time Turner ever really forget, even though they altered the past? The thought of erasing his life from age nine only to fill it with a new one of an unspecified nature seemed incredibly overwhelming - especially after the recent trauma of Pound's memory charm.

Time travel was so confusing, even for a man as smart as he. The nuances...life was not so linear, and altering something from long ago wasn't like changing one pair of gloves for another. All the same...it was so tempting. What person had never fantasized about having the ability to go back and change something? When it was a real possibility, who could say no?

A headache was building full-force behind his eyes. That was what happened to him when he didn't know what to do. It was a rare occurrence these days, but when it came on...Merlin. He remembered the last dark year of the war, when he had spent days in his bed, trying to drown out all light, sound, and feeling to calm the awful pain in his head. Even the sound of his own breathing was like a dozen trephines in his skull.

Maybe it was a sign. Perhaps he shouldn't make a decision like this so quickly. He had to think about it and all its permutations. It wasn't like he couldn't come back; he didn't have to decide _now._

With a shaky breath, Lucius turned the paper sideways. He was just about to rip it in half when the Unspeakable appeared again. Lucius cursed the other wizard's excellent customer service skills as he plucked the parchment from his hands.

"All finished, Mr. Malfoy? I'll take that for you. Resubmissions usually require a little more time to evaluate than original submissions. You can expect an answer in three weeks or so. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

He wondered if karma was punishing him, if this excessively helpful Unspeakable was fate's way of reminding him that he had thrown his life away down here, and pain throbbed anew between his ears.

"No," he responded, "unless you know of a good headache remedy."

And, of course, the Unspeakable did.

* * *

He went home with every intention of forgetting about the Time Turner request. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that it would never be approved, if they even bothered to waste time and manpower on doing the equations. While it had made him feel somewhat better to know that his father hadn't lied to him, it was also incredibly bittersweet.

The plain truth was that his father could have done more all along. Even if he hadn't been able to prevent the rape, he could have shown more care toward his son, exerted more energy to raise and guide him, and just...been a father. As much as it pained Lucius to think it, the Time Turner request was an example of too little, too late.

Nonetheless, he was glad that he hadn't gone down to the Ministry for nothing. Whatever he felt now was doubtless nothing compared to the way he might have felt if his father had lied. Lies compounded upon lies...he'd had enough of that.

Lucius walked back in to the safety that was the villa. He felt better instantly; though Hermione was out at class, the space was familiar, warm, and..._his_. He threw open the shutters and drew in a deep breath.

The air was cool, but he felt the sun behind it, lending it a frisson of the spring weather to come. It smelled of wet earth - of growth. A current of green was beginning to thread through the fields. He stood there for a long time, taking in the view that he had seen a hundred times before. He never grew weary of it.

A moment later, he felt a tug at his robe. "Master Lucius?"

"Yes, Jo-Jo?"

"Would you like anything before Jo-Jo goes shopping?"

He looked down at the elf, pondering all the things he would like at the moment. There weren't many that Jo-Jo could help with. He smiled at her.

"Perhaps a cup of tea, and a headache potion."

She nodded and disappeared down to the kitchen to oblige. She was only gone for a minute, but it gave him enough time to sit at the desk and reach into the drawer that held his manuscripts. He dug to the bottom, reaching for the one that had not been touched in quite some time.

"Oh! Master is writing again?" Jo-Jo trilled happily as she set his tea and potion down.

"Indeed," he murmured. Because, if nothing else, his father had at last given him an ending.

* * *

Days passed, and the Time Turner request faded from his mind. The completion of Soif wasn't confined to words on a paper; Lucius actually felt that it was the completion of the journey that had led him here, to this lazy Sunday with Hermione. There were many things that he still wished to change, but here, now, he didn't need that hope to sustain him. The request would be denied and he would be okay.

Absently, he rubbed Hermione's foot where it rested in his lap. She usually squirmed when he stroked her arch just so, but not today. He glanced up from his book.

"I've been thinking," she began, "I'm going to have to tell my parents about us eventually."

He had been waiting for Hermione to bring that up. Truthfully, he was surprised she had gone this long without insisting that she had to come clean. He closed the book and set it down, knowing that this would be more than a passing conversation.

"It's fine. I understand." He took in her anxious face. "Will they be averse to our age difference?"

"I don't know," she replied, twisting a curl nervously. "It's just...I never dated much. I've always been so focused on my studies. I'm not sure what they'll think."

"Well, they struck me as nice people for the two minutes I met them," Lucius said with a wry smile. Those had been under very different circumstances, of course.

"Any parents are nice when they don't suspect you're sleeping with their daughter."

He supposed that was different when one had a daughter rather than a son. He didn't much care who Draco slept with, not anymore. Certainly he'd take issue if Draco was too promiscuous - it was never prudent to spread oneself around indiscriminately for various reasons - but he didn't mind if his son had a healthy sex life. In fact, he wished it for him. He knew firsthand how a man's mood and outlook were greatly impacted by regular sex with a loving partner.

"I'm not in danger of death or immediate castration, am I?"

"Oh, no." She sighed and pursed her lips. "I suppose the best thing to do is for me to tell them first, and then they'll probably invite us to dinner. After that...I just don't know."

* * *

"You're fidgety, darling."

Curse her perceptive mother. "Oh, just some exams coming up."

"What are you studying now?" her father asked around a mouthful of Indian takeaway.

"Conditions of the endocrine system and magical hormones."

"Magical hormones? Intriguing. Do wizards and witches have many different ones than regular people?"

"A few," Hermione said, glad to be in safe territory. "Hormones control when and how strongly a witch or wizard's magical powers become active. Some start to be able to do magic around age 8, while others don't fully awaken until their teens. It's why they're never really sure someone's a squib until they're halfway through school. If they haven't been able to do magic by 15, there's a good chance they never will."

"Can't they take a synthetic form of the hormone, like we do in the Muggle world?" her mother asked.

"They've tried that. It doesn't seem to work. Apparently, each person has their own specific version of that hormone. Giving someone else's has no effect."

"It's a bit mysterious, isn't it?"

"Very much so." Hermione looked back and forth between her parents. "You know, there have been theories that the parents of Muggleborn witches or wizards are simply those with magical hormone levels too low to be detectable. That Muggleborns may not be Muggleborn at all...rather, they're children of squibs who never knew they had any magical lineage." She took another bite of her biryani. "But nothing has ever been proven."

"It seems like you're enjoying your studies," her mother commented, a proud smile on her face. "But make sure you're getting out to do other things. You're young."

"What your mother means is that she wants you to go out and meet boys," her father chuckled. Her mother gave him a death glare, but then she turned back to Hermione.

"I just want to make sure that Ronald isn't your only attempt at love. It's easy to run away when the first one doesn't work out."

"So how about it, darling? Any dashing young men in your life?" her father asked with the enthusiasm that only a father expecting an answer in the negative could muster.

Hermione took a fortifying breath. It was now or never.

"Actually..."

Her mother's face lit up, while her father's fell. Hermione would have laughed at it if it had been anybody else. She plowed ahead, summoning that supposed Gryffindor courage.

"I've been seeing someone for a while. It was informal at first...we didn't expect it to go anywhere. But it just keeps getting better and better, so I thought I should tell you."

Her mother grinned triumphantly. "I knew it! You've been so happy lately. And always busy...a girl can only study so much!"

Hermione could study an awful lot, but she didn't bother to argue with her mother. "Well, I didn't want to jump to conclusions this time around," she murmured. The relationship with Ron had happened so fast; she had gone from exasperated, distant love to explosive certainty that she was going to marry him. It didn't leave room for much else - such as _why_ they liked one another and whether or not that was enough to sustain them. It was too fast, too forced, and held together by too many jumbled emotions and perceptions.

What she had with Lucius was honest. They had taken the time to know themselves and one another with everything out on the table. Their only strife was what they each brought with them. Nothing and no one was pushing them to fall for one another. It just happened...and in her opinion, that was why it felt so much better.

"Tell us about him. What's his name?"

This was madness, but it had to be done.

"Ehm...you've met him before. Do you recall the blond gentleman who came to visit me here several months ago?"

At first they looked bewildered. It had been over 8 months ago, now, and she couldn't blame them for not remembering a person they met once. However, Lucius was not a forgettable man; people noticed men with long hair, particularly hair as nice as his, and the canethat stupid cane. He claimed his grandfather, a man he liked a great deal more than most of his other relatives, had given it to him.

Then realization dawned on her father's face and she knew the game was up.

"The...older gentleman? The one with the cane?"

Deep breath in. Controlled exhalation. She was the picture of composure.

"Yes. His name is Lucius."

Now her mother had caught on. "Hermione, dear, isn't he a bit old for you?" She paled. "He's not married, is he?"

"Not anymore. Divorced."

"You're dating an old man who is divorced and walks with a cane," her father said flatly.

Hermione sighed a sigh that Harry and Ron would have recognized instantly. It was her sigh of exasperation when people were not on the same page she was. "He doesn't need the cane to walk. It's just an accessory. Family heirloom. And by wizarding standards, he isn't old! The headmaster of my school was almost 150 years old when he died, and he would have kept living long after that if he hadn't been killed."

"So how old _is_ this Lucius?" her mother asked.

"He'll be 46 in June."

"For heaven's sake, Hermione, you're only 22!"

"I've told you already, he's young by wizarding standards," she replied, trying to remain calm and reasonable.

"If he's young, you must be a zygote," her father muttered.

Hermione put her fork down with a little more force than she intended. "I didn't come here to ask your approval. I'm a grown woman and I will date who I like. I just wanted you to know that I've met someone who makes me very happy, and I was hoping that maybe you would be able to accept him even though he isn't the most practical man for me."

There was a long silence. Her parents shared a look. Hermione didn't know what was contained within it, but it was hard to split her mind enough to be concerned. This wasn't looking good. She had to mentally prepare herself for this to be a sore point between her and her parents, who were still sore about being Obliviated, though they swore they had forgiven her.

"Look," she continued shakily, "I don't expect you to understand, but I wanted to be honest with you. I want you involved with my life even if you don't always agree with it."

"We don't know anything about him," her father said. "We're just concerned."

"Then give him a chance. Stop judging him by his age and look at him like you would any other man I brought home."

Her father looked at his hands. Her mother blinked back tears.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, dear, it's just hard to get used to the idea that now you bring home men instead of boys. You're not a little girl anymore."

"No, I'm not."

Another pause. Then, at last, her father spoke.

"Well then, you'll have to bring him round. You're my brilliant daughter. He must have a few redeeming qualities if you like him."

* * *

At first Lucius wanted to invite her parents to the villa. Hermione vetoed that, explaining to him that while her parents now knew they were together, they didn't know he and Hermione were _living_ together. He didn't see what the fuss was. Lucius had assumed that Muggles, like most wizarding folk who weren't Purebloods, no longer had a taboo about a couple living together before marriage. She explained that her parents didn't think it was wrong; she just didn't want to overwhelm them when they were still trying to adjust to the fact that she was dating an older man.

He accepted it without question, though he was clearly mystified. He was also bewildered when she requested that he leave his cane at home.

"What's wrong with my cane?"

"Nothing is wrong with your cane," Hermione lied. "I just don't want anything present that will remind them of your age! My father thought you needed it to walk, you know."

He pouted. "Shall I go get some procedures, as well, so I don't look like such a geezer? A facelift, perhaps?"

She swatted him on the arm. "Don't you start."

Though he was surly about it, Lucius left the cane behind. Hermione needn't have worried, anyhow; he could charm a siren out into the ocean rather than the other way around. By the end of the evening her mother was smitten. Her father was a more difficult prospect, but it seemed that he could find no obvious defect with Lucius. Hermione would guess that he even liked him, but wasn't ready to admit it or give up his protective father role just yet.

"So," her mother asked, "how did you two meet, anyhow?"

Lucius and Hermione looked at one another. Knowing that this question would come up, they'd discussed how they should respond. They hadn't quite agreed on what to say.

"At a tea shop," Hermione recovered. It wasn't a lie. It _was _where she had truly met Lucius - the real man, not the mask. Everything else was history.

* * *

Spring was upon them. Hermione smiled at the sight of Lucius sitting before the open window scribbling away at his parchment. Every now and then he would stop and stare out the window. Then, as if he had found whatever he was looking for, he would set the quill to parchment and begin again. There hadn't been any snapped quills for a while.

She was desperately curious about what he was writing. He hadn't said a word about it and was evasive when she asked questions. Whatever it was, it definitely wasn't packing the same emotional punch as Faim or Soif. He seemed remarkably calm and content while writing it.

Hermione approached him, frowning at the way he hunched over the desk and making a mental note to fiddle with his setup. Only deep, deep thought and the haze of inspiration could make him forget his ingrained Pureblood posture. She wondered what they did to their children to make their backs ramrod straight. Whatever it was, it had either not been done to Draco, or it hadn't worked. He was a moody sloucher if ever she saw one. Lucius, not so much.

She slid her hands along his shoulders, then up his neck and into his hair. He hummed in pleasure and the quill lifted from the parchment so he wouldn't leave a splotch of ink. When it became clear that she wasn't going to discontinue her attentions anytime soon, he set it aside and leaned back into her caresses.

"This had better not be a ploy to look at my manuscript," he purred.

"Of course not," she replied, leaning down to kiss his forehead. As she did, he reached up to pluck a curl and twine it around his finger.

"You're a miserable liar, darling."

Hermione tilted her head to kiss the side of his jaw. "I know. I don't see you complaining."

Quite suddenly, he spun the chair around. It put her off balance. The only way to go was forward into his lap, and that was exactly what he wanted. He tugged her astride him and cocked an eyebrow.

"It's never a good idea to complain when your muse is doing her job." His hands slid along her thighs and he made a sound of annoyance. He'd said only a few days before that he couldn't wait until it got warmer and she could wear her dresses. Apparently, trousers were too much effort for him - though not much of a deterrent, for a moment later he shamelessly slid his hands beneath the waistband to cup her bottom.

"I'm not interrupting?" she whispered breathily as his lips devoured her neck.

"You never interrupt," he murmured, his words hot little puffs against her skin, "and if you do, it's most welcome."

* * *

It was the first time they'd made love in his writing chair. Most of the other furniture in the house had already fallen victim to their passion, but the chair had remained a curious exception until an hour before. She sat cocooned in his lap afterwards, a blanket wrapped around her to fend off the spring breeze.

During that long period of bliss, an owl flew in and landed on the windowsill. With one arm around her to hold her in place, Lucius leaned over to take the mail and deftly conjured a treat for the owl. Hermione noticed that the Eagle owl was starting to look a bit portly; it was probably receiving treats on both ends, since it was flying from the Manor to Italy and back every day. She smiled as it preened under Lucius's attention.

Though the shock was somewhat worn off now, it had initially stunned her how gentle Lucius could be with other creatures. The image she had in her mind was of the man who treated his House Elves like rubbish. That was hard to reconcile with the man who humored Crookshanks and Musca with toys and catnip when he didn't think she was looking.

Hermione smiled to herself. The image of the eight-year-old Lucius from his dreams of playing tag in the sunflower field popped into her mind. She remembered the streak of mischief in that boy's eyes. If she was not mistaken, it was starting to return to the man; slowly, steadily, he was reclaiming the sense of fun that had been robbed from his childhood.

Lucius yawned as he sorted through the mail. A moment later he said, "Oh, dear."

"What?" Hermione asked dreamily.

"My ex-wife is having a dinner party." He shook his head. "It would appear that her reputation has recovered enough to begin re-entering the social circles."

"Hopefully not the same ones."

"Hopefully not," he agreed. "My presence is requested."

"When?"

"Two weeks from now."

"I suppose I can let you out to play," Hermione smirked.

"Your generosity knows no bounds."

"I know."

She felt the brush of his lips as he laid a silent kiss upon her crown. Then there was only the rustle of papers as he continued to wade through the stack of mail - it was bigger and bigger these days. Some letters he barely had to look at before he knew they were trash. Others kept him busy for a very long time; he had received a fair share of missives from others who had gone through the same thing as him. Some of those letters just related their stories, and some thanked him for being brave enough to speak out. Hermione knew he didn't feel all that brave.

For his part, Lucius had been watching the mail closely for anything from the Ministry. It wasn't that unusual for him to receive something from the Office of Magical Law Enforcement, but now he had to be on alert for something from the Department of Mysteries. However, four weeks out it seemed less and less likely that anything would come. His request had probably given the Time Turner team a good laugh and nothing more.

As expected, there was nothing. He set the mail down and then gently dislodged Hermione from his lap. Today they had actually invited Paolo and Elisabetta to come up to the villa for dinner rather than the usual trip down to their home. There was a lot to do to prepare; the place needed to be touched up and they had to apply a dozen Glamours to make Jo-Jo look like a human servant because neither of them could cook well enough to present an edible meal without her. Cooking lessons were now on Hermione's list of things they needed to do.

She sighed. "I'll handle the Glamours if you do the cleaning."

Lucius smirked. She really did hate keeping house; no wonder she had given up on becoming a Weasley. "Done," he replied. As mortifying as it was to admit to himself, he would get down on his knees and scrub with a toothbrush if it meant keeping her.

* * *

"I didn't realize you had no electricity up here," Elisabetta said in wonder. The sun had just begun to set and Hermione and Jo-Jo, who was introduced to Paolo and Elisabetta as Joanna, diligently went to work lighting candles. It took longer than usual since they couldn't use magic.

"We got so used to it that we haven't bothered to look into getting it wired," Hermione shrugged, replacing the glass globe around the last candle.

"It's romantic," Elisabetta said. "No wonder you and Luciano are so in love."

Hermione blushed and sat next to the Italian woman on the couch. Lucius and Paolo were still out in the courtyard for the time being, nursing their full stomachs and the last of the wine. Elisabetta had followed Hermione in to make use of the loo and had been caught up in the fact that their only light for the remainder of the evening would be provided by candles.

"He's easy to love, once you get past a few little things," she murmured. Lucius would have laughed at her. The things she had to get past were neither few in number nor little. However, now that it had been done, that was how it felt; everything from the past seemed so minor. Love had that effect.

"When will you two get married?"

Hermione was startled from her drowsy thoughts by the pointed question. She blinked at Elisabetta, trying to formulate a response. Marriage had never crossed her mind.

"I...well, we've only been together for about ten months. It's still quite early."

She looked surprised. "Oh. It seems like you have been with each other much longer."

Hermione examined her nails. "It does, doesn't it?"

"That is how you know you've picked the right one." Elisabetta smiled. "I dated Paolo for a week, and felt like we had known one another forever."

She didn't feel like she had known Lucius forever. In fact, she felt like she had known him for precious little time, and every moment of that time made her want to know more. Perhaps there were two kinds of soul mates - the ones who knew each other inside and out and were meant to be from the first moment of contact, and the ones who were continuously discovering new and wondrous things about each other because whatever drew them together was a complete mystery. Sometimes love was there from the beginning and sometimes it grew from one little seed of fascination, compassion, or determination.

Once upon a time she had wanted to put Lucius back together. Now she only wanted to dissect him, to know every inch of him as intimately as she could, because he was no longer falling apart. Hermione felt another one of those bludgeoning waves of emotion and had to take a deep breath to temper it.

"What is it about your families, that they can't see what you have?" Elisabetta asked softly.

"They will," Hermione said. "Eventually, they will."

* * *

"I didn't know what to wear," Tiresias said anxiously. "I don't go to dinner parties."

"You look fine," Lucius assured him.

"Who is going to be there?"

"I have no idea," Lucius answered truthfully. His ex-wife's guest list was certain to have changed since the last time she had a party. This would be as much of a surprise for him as it was for Tiresias. He experienced a moment of pity as he watched Tiresias fidget. Either his healer had set aside his personal life when he agreed to take Lucius on, or he had not had much of one to begin with. He found that hard to believe considering how engaging Tiresias could be, but one never knew.

He resisted the urge to inquire about the last time Tiresias had been on a date. Now that he had Hermione, Lucius found himself feeling an inexplicable pity for men who had not yet found the right person. However, he doubted that his curiosity would be welcome; after all, it was partially his fault that Tiresias didn't seem to have time for romance.

Tiresias sighed and then stifled a yawn.

"Have you slept?" Lucius asked, realizing that the time difference made this an odd hour for the other man.

"Not really," the healer said, "so if I look like I'm about to nod off into my hors d'oeuvres, please rescue me and my dignity."

"You don't have to attend. My ex-wife will survive if her guest list is one shy of the RSVPs."

"I put on a suit and I'm here. There's no going back." Tiresias smirked. "Besides, even my dog has been giving me looks that say I need to get out more."

"Then we shall be on our way," Lucius chuckled.

* * *

The Manor looked immaculate, as always. Lucius felt a stab of pride. Since he had begun the slow process of purifying the manse, everything about it felt lighter. The air was no longer oppressive and the gleam of candlelight off polished surfaces wasn't cold. He didn't know how he had gone so long without seeing how dark magic choked the natural beauty of his ancestral home.

Tiresias seemed like he was noticing it for the first time. He had been here before, but had never seen it like this. He looked up at the ornate ceiling and began to fidget again.

"This really is a beautiful home, Lucius. I can't imagine why you don't stay here. The villa is very sparse in comparison."

"It is, but I prefer to make new memories rather than wallow in old ones." What Tiresias didn't know was that many ghosts roamed these halls, visible or otherwise, and it would take more than a magical facelift to erase them.

"Understandable." The healer straightened his sleeve. "Speaking of, I'm guessing that...certain topics remain off limits here?"

"Yes." Lucius didn't need to elaborate.

"Done."

"It's best to stick to only three glasses of wine. No more."

"Only three," Tiresias nodded, doubtful that he would even make it that far.

"And say no if anyone offers Ogden's."

"Not a problem."

"And if my ex-wife starts fishing for information, escape as soon as you possibly can."

"I have my Irritable Bowel Syndrome excuse ready."

Lucius laughed, once again luxuriating in the strange and wonderful feeling of having friends. It was at that moment that Narcissa breezed in. She smiled and leaned in to bestow an air kiss to his right cheek.

"Goodness, it's lovely to hear you laugh," she said. "I'd almost forgotten what it sounded like."

"That makes two of us." He returned the friendly salutation and smiled at her. She looked beautiful as always. "How is the turnout?"

"Excellent so far." Narcissa turned her attention to Tiresias. "Thank you so much for coming, Healer Smythe."

"Call me Tiresias, please," he entreated.

"Tiresias, then. Come in, have some wine. Dinner should be ready shortly."

* * *

He should have known it would happen. Lucius had been whisked away almost immediately to catch up with old friends and acquaintances, as well as meet some new ones, and he could hardly protest as he was, technically, the host. Good manners won out and he abandoned Tiresias. At the very least, he'd looked apologetic.

So here he was, alone at a party where he knew no one. It wasn't that he was anxious; he'd gone to countless medical conferences where he found himself in the same situation. He always managed to find a few interesting people to pass the time with. Nonetheless, it always felt better to have at least one person to fall back on.

Perhaps Lucius's three-glass warning was more pertinent than he thought. There wasn't much to do but nurse the full-bodied red. He was already drinking more than he ought to. After this, he decided, he would stuff his face with food instead of wine to even things out.

"I know you from somewhere."

A woman's voice washed over him, and he looked up. His eyes widened before he could control his reaction. It was her - the woman from the hospital. The one he'd attempted to ask out for a cup of coffee only to be thwarted by an elevator door.

"I can't figure it out," she continued.

"I can," he said. "I see you finally managed to get off that lift, and not a moment too soon."

This time her eyes widened, and then her cheeks went slightly pink. "Of course," she murmured, touching her hand to her forehead. "The hospital. You must think I'm mad."

"No, not at all. There are certainly times when I don't feel like getting off the lift, either." Tiresias smiled; he was more acquainted with the feeling than she could know, especially from his younger days where he'd worked in a hospital rather than running his own practice. "Until you step outside those doors, you're still in transit. You haven't reached the moment of confrontation."

"Exactly," she nodded. She tilted her head to the side, an unreadable look on her face. "I'm Andromeda."

"Tiresias Smythe." He offered his hand and she took it. In a million years he never would have believed that what happened next was actually possible, but he knew it when he felt it. It was as if a shock traveled up his arm, jolting him sharply into hyperawareness.

"Oh, you're Lucius's healer, then," she murmured. "It makes sense."

"Yes," he answered, feeling dumbfounded but apparently not showing it. "I was just leaving his room when I bumped into you that night. How do you know him?"

"I'm Narcissa's sister."

That surprised him; they didn't look very much alike. Narcissa was waifish, pale, blonde, an ice-princess. Andromeda's beauty was more complex and more classical. Both sisters were beautiful in their own way, but if he had to choose, Andromeda would certainly have his vote.

"It's lovely to meet you," he said, still feeling completely dazed. However, his voice sounded composed to ears that were ringing.

"Likewise, and I'm glad that it's under better circumstances this time." Her brow creased slightly. "You know, I heard you start to say something that night in the hospital when the lift doors were closing. What was it?"

"I was going to ask you if you wanted to get a cup of coffee," he said without a trace of hesitation.

"Does the offer still stand?"

"Yes." _A thousand times yes._

"My treat," she said, "since I was so rude. Is Wednesday all right?"

* * *

Andromeda walked toward the loo with her heart beating like a rabbit's. She had just made a date with a man she barely knew. Moreover, it had been so automatic, as if she was not even in control of herself. From the moment she took his hand to shake it, some kind of autopilot had taken over.

She closed the door and leaned against the sink. It was not often that she felt overwhelmed, but it had taken everything she had to tear herself away from Tiresias Smythe. He was _magnetic_, and she could only wonder why she hadn't noticed it the first time. Perhaps because she had been so worked up over other things...

A part of her had known that this moment would come eventually - the moment when she found herself reawakening as a woman, desiring someone to fill the void Ted had left. She was content to avoid it for a long time.

More than three years had passed since Ted's death. Time didn't lessen the pain of being alone, but neither did isolation. Rationally, she knew Ted would want her to move on, to find someone new who would make her happy. Nymphadora would have wanted that, too. Andromeda was the only one who held on to the mantle of a widow with such tenacity.

It was like living in a fog, really. Her days were long, yet at the end of each one, she wondered where the time had gone. In that way she had been letting life pass by as one would watch scenery outside a train window. Just a pretty blur...

But something had brought it sharply into focus, and slowed it down into a speed she could manage. That something had been that night at the hospital, where she witnessed the impossible. Seeing Lucius and Hermione together had rekindled a fire in her. It had reintroduced her to _passion_.

Still, it was only passion for other people and other things. Only now, when she interacted with the handsome healer, did she feel it within herself. Andromeda took a deep breath.

"Okay," she said out loud. "So you want to kiss him. It's all right. Perfectly normal."

"Yes indeed, dear, perfectly normal," the mirror commiserated. "Who's the lucky gentleman?"

Andromeda looked shrewdly at the mirror. "None of your business. And you may tell my sister that it's rude to spy on her guests."

In response, the mirror showed her an image of herself with a very convincing handlebar mustache. Andromeda left the loo laughing, thinking that Teddy would love a mirror like that, and jumped back into the fire without fear.

* * *

His head was spinning. Even at the height of their popularity, he and Narcissa had never hosted a party this lively. It seemed like every other minute he was being pulled into some conversation or dragged to meet a new person, and he had lost Narcissa half an hour ago. This was _exhausting_, but not in a bad way.

At last Lucius managed to find a moment alone. He had warned Tiresias about overdoing it on the wine, but Lucius had not managed a single drink himself. Determined to remedy that, he detoured to the wine cellar to find the more exclusive libations - the ones no guest would ever have access to, unless it was Merlin himself.

He took a route back upstairs that only a Malfoy would know. At least, he thought so; he was startled to run into Marietta Edgecombe in one of the lesser-used corridors. He nearly spilled his wine on her.

Nodding, Lucius tried to step around her. Marietta didn't move.

"You know who I am," she blurted, "what I did, but you've never said anything. Why aren't you trying to get Draco to dump me?"

He stared at the redhead, contemplating her question. She waited anxiously; he could see her hands twining together and her green eyes were wide with apprehension. This had probably been wearing on her mind for weeks. For a moment, Lucius let her squirm.

Then, deciding that it was best not to be cruel when she had actually scraped up the courage to confront him, he said, "I believe in second chances."

She swallowed, appearing as if she was unsure if she wanted to jump up and down in elation or cry. "Thank you."

"The only gratitude I want is for you to make my son happy," he replied. "So far, you've done that. But bear in mind that there are no third chances, and I will do what I have to in order to protect him."

Marietta's shoulders drew up and back; Lucius saw confidence take hold of her. He couldn't have known that it was an uncommon occurrence, one that had rarely happened before now, but he recognized a woman determined to rise to the challenge that had been issued.

"I understand," she said.

* * *

He thought he was done with awkward encounters for the evening, but Lucius was very wrong. He had only just escaped Marietta and emerged onto the main level of the house when someone else cornered him. Dawlish practically dragged him into an empty room and Lucius didn't protest because it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that the Auror had something important to tell him - something that was best relayed in private.

"I'm sorry," he apologized immediately, looking unusually flustered. "I was hoping to get a minute alone with you."

Irritated that people continued to obstruct his glass of ninety year old wine, Lucius took a sip before he responded. "Well, here I am. What is it?"

"Er...I don't really know how to say this properly, but...I wanted to...speak to you...regarding Narcissa."

Lucius controlled a smirk. "Yes? What about her?" He knew what Dawlish was alluding to, but pretending not to afforded more amusement. The Auror bore a slightly pained look, as if he had been hoping Lucius would make it easy on him and not force him to spell it out.

"I...er...well, since meeting her, I confess I have been...developing feelings for her. I thought at first that it was friendship, but I..." Dawlish trailed off, licking his lips. He looked at the floor for a long moment. Then he jerked his head up as if he had reached the decision that it all had to come out. "Lucius, this is your house, and Narcissa was your wife. She still lives here. It could be your generosity that allows for it, or it could be the fact that something still remains between the two of you. I will not disrespect you by pursuing Narcissa if it is in your mind to reconcile with her. But I am not willing to lose her because I couldn't speak rationally with you to discover the answer. So tell me now, Lucius, if Narcissa is off limits so I will not get myself in any deeper."

"Of course something remains between us, Dawlish," he started, and instantly felt bad when the Auror's face fell, so he plowed ahead, "and his name is Draco. Narcissa gave me a son and for that I will always love her. But that doesn't give me any right to 'claim her' or mark her 'off limits'. One thing I have always respected about Narcissa is that she knows what she wants, and won't let anyone get in the way of it. She would have you whether I protested or not if it was really what she wanted to do. Do not believe for a moment that I ever had her under any kind of control."

Dawlish nodded. "I understand that she is an independent woman. That was never in question. I know what she wants, Lucius. It's you I was unsure of, and since I've come to know you, I don't believe you deserve to have someone you care about stolen away."

Lucius stared at him, stunned. "Dawlish, it's-"

"So if it will be too painful to witness, you have to tell me now, when I still have the power to tear myself away."

"Dawlish-"

"And Narcissa assures me that you are seeing someone else and you're madly in love, but I don't feel right bypassing you."

"_Dawlish!_" Lucius barked, narrowly avoiding turning pink with embarrassment.

The Auror startled out of his tirade, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I've been thinking about it too much."

"Clearly you have."

"I shouldn't have brought it up. I just thought..."

Lucius held up his hands, glass of wine and all. "You thought rightly. It is strange that I have allowed Narcissa to stay here and any man wishing to romance her would have the same reaction. She expressed to me when we were splitting up that she didn't wish to return to her parents' home, and having been in it several times, I don't blame her. I couldn't go from living here to living there after so many years, and neither could she."

"So it's...purely for that reason that you let her stay?"

"There are a few more reasons, but nothing you need to know right this moment. The bottom line is that Narcissa is right; I have moved on, and I wish the same happiness for her."

"Then she's...?"

"Yours to pursue."

Dawlish blinked. "It's that simple?"

"Sometimes it is," Lucius nodded. Then, realizing that he wasn't the one who needed it, he pressed his ninety year old glass of wine into Dawlish's hand and excused himself.

* * *

"Oh, before you go, Lucius, I have today's mail for you. I figured there was no point in sending it since you'd be here," Narcissa said, tiredly pushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

Lucius glanced at Tiresias to make sure the healer wouldn't fall over; he was that exhausted. Tiresias appeared secure on the couch. He followed Narcissa, stifling a yawn of his own. The party had been pure madness, at least by pureblood standards. He didn't envy the House Elves who had to clean everything up.

She handed him a stack of scrolls and envelopes that he promptly shrunk down and jammed into his pocket. The likelihood of any of it being important was slim to none. However, he would sort through it tomorrow, when he didn't feel like his brain was leaking from his ear.

"Thank you."

"And thank you for coming. I wasn't sure you would."

"Why not?" he asked, perplexed.

"I didn't know if you would want to be around so many strangers. People didn't ask you too many questions about the book, did they?"

"Only one or two," he murmured. "Certainly not the worst I've ever gotten."

"I'm glad."

He smiled at Narcissa. Dawlish was a lucky man, and Lucius hoped that the Auror would be able to give Narcissa everything that he hadn't. He certainly seemed the type. At last, Narcissa would have a hero and not a villain.

"What are you thinking about?" she prodded.

"Nothing."

"Twenty years of marriage and you think I don't know that look?"

"I have not had enough wine for you to successfully fish for information, my dear," he returned.

Narcissa pouted, but then her lips curved into a smile. "Well, a woman has to try."

"Indeed she does. Say good night to Draco for me, will you?"

"He's not around?"

"I couldn't find him. He's probably off with that girlfriend of his."

"Thank goodness," Narcissa sighed. "I was beginning to think I might have to resort to matchmaking."

* * *

Tiresias was practically asleep on his feet when Lucius herded him out of the floo at the villa. Either he had not heeded the three drink rule or he was truly bone-tired. He would not be making the trip back to Vancouver tonight, since it was unlikely that he would be able to stay awake long enough to shout out his destination.

Feeling oddly like he was tucking his child in, Lucius put him to bed in the room Hermione had once occupied. He realized the healer was in a suit and that was perhaps not the most comfortable attire for sleep; with a long-suffering sigh, he muttered some spells and the other man's suit left his body and hung itself in the closet. Tiresias dozed through the impromptu stripping, but woke when Lucius deprived him of his shoes.

"How come you didn't tell me Narcissa has a sister?" he mumbled. "A pretty one?"

Lucius gave him a sideways glance. "Well, she had two sisters. One is deceased and Narcissa was not on speaking terms with the other for many years. They reconciled recently."

"I have a date with her on Wednesday."

"With Andromeda?"

"Yes." Tiresias yawned.

Lucius tried to process the implications. Narcissa had mentioned to him that Andromeda had not shown any interest in finding a new paramour after losing her husband; apparently that was erroneous. He decided it was best to let things play out as they would.

"She's a good woman."

"I haven't been on a date in two and a half years."

"Before I met Hermione, my only dates were with you. And you are not cheap."

He saw Tiresias smile even as his eyes were drooping. "Neither are you."

"On to greener pastures, then." Lucius tugged the blanket back into place. "I propose a mutual breakup."

"Done," Tiresias said, and then his body relaxed completely, alerting Lucius that he had finally lost the battle with exhaustion.

* * *

He slid into bed next to Hermione, and only then did it hit him that he was as tired as his healer, if not more so. Adrenaline had kept him going. Now, enveloped in the warmth and familiarity of his woman and his bed, fatigue sucker-punched him into an instant sleep.

* * *

Hermione woke several hours later and was surprised when she made it to the loo and back without waking him. Most mornings he seemed tuned to her slightest move; no matter how quiet she tried to be, she would ways turn around to find his cool blue eyes open and fixed on her. Not so today. It seemed his party had gone later than expected.

Upon further exploration, she found Tiresias Smythe in a similar state in the other bedroom. Neither man looked any worse for the wear. Nonetheless, she asked Jo-Jo to brew a strong pot of coffee and have some headache and hangover relief potions at the ready just in case.

She was deeply engrossed in a book when she felt Lucius come up behind her. Unheeding of her concentration, his hand threaded beneath her chin and tilted it up so he could kiss her. She heard him chuckle, because even as she returned the kiss, her eyes were drifting back toward the page - it was the first time in a while that she had been able to read for leisure rather than for school.

"What time is it?" she asked distractedly.

"Just after ten."

"Oh." She had been reading for over two hours.

"Did you eat breakfast?"

"No."

"Is Tiresias still here?"

Hermione nodded. "You two had a good time last night, hm?"

An interesting expression came over Lucius's face. It was the same one that graced his features when he learned a particularly interesting and/or useful piece of information.

"One of us did," he smirked. "Tiresias is going on a date with Andromeda."

That made Hermione put her book down. "Are you serious?"

Lucius held up his right hand. "From the horse's mouth."

"Good for them."

"Let's hope. I'm sure they both need a good shag."

"A date is not a guarantee of a shag, Lucius," Hermione replied, rolling her eyes - though privately she agreed with him.

He gave her a smug look. "If it's done right it is."

Containing her smile so as not to encourage him, she picked up her book again. "Are you going to ask Jo-Jo to make breakfast?"

"Yes. What does my sarcastic little muse desire?"

Hermione opened her mouth, but it wasn't her voice that sounded a moment later.

"Coffee," Tiresias Smythe fairly moaned as he emerged from the short hallway. "For the love of all that is holy, coffee."

"I think he might want some coffee," Hermione said, stifling a laugh. "I told Jo-Jo to have a pot ready."

"Bless your heart," Smythe mumbled. Rubbing his eyes, he collapsed into one of the chairs, seemingly impervious to the fact that he was only in his undershirt and boxers. Lucius shared an amused look with Hermione and then turned to walk down to the kitchen.

* * *

After a pleasant morning with Tiresias, who proved far more gregarious once he'd had his all-important two cups of coffee, Lucius remembered the mail he'd shoved in his pocket. He didn't relish sorting through it, but it would be his luck that the one day he neglected the mail would be the day something important came. He retrieved his cloak and pulled out the miniaturized stack of correspondence.

Hermione was still absorbed in her book - a gargantuan copy of Hugo's Les Miserables which, by the look of it, had been read many times before - so he needn't worry about interruptions. Lucius sighed. He would prefer them.

He enlarged the sheaf of parchment and scanned through to see if there were any seals or return addresses he recognized. There, fifteen letters in, was a stamp that made him freeze.

_Ministry of Magic_

_Department of Mysteries_

_Level 9_

Ah, so his rejection had at last arrived. So kind of them to expedite the process. A part of him didn't want to bother opening it since it was obvious what the answer would be, but curiosity won out. He wanted to see if they'd actually calculated the outcome percentage and how dismally low it would be. Did they get numbers as low as one percent? Or was it never that definitive?

Without a stitch of hope or expectation, he opened the envelope.

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

_Enclosed are the results of your recent Time Turner request. To schedule an appointment please contact our office between 8:00 and 17:00, Monday through Saturday. As there are few Time Turners currently in operation, appointments may not be available for up to six weeks. It is advised that you contact us to arrange an appointment as soon as possible for the earliest activation date._

Activation date? Wait a moment...surely they meant _appeal _date...eyes wide, Lucius turned to the second page. A large, hunter green stamp announced to him that he had been APPROVED.

For a time, he couldn't even process what the word meant. Approved? It wasn't in the vocabulary of a stalled brain. Approved...

Then, slowly, his mind supplied a definition. _Approved...confirmed, sanctioned, allowed, agreed to, authorized..._

How in the world? It couldn't be possible. Hands shaking, he flattened out the paper and tried to find the outcome percentile. There...his stomach sank like a stone. Ninety-one percent. The exact same number as his father's request.

He felt panic rising within him, like a volcano suddenly pressurized past its breaking point, and he backed away from the table. He wanted to run. With a tremendous effort, he squashed the urge; he didn't want to alarm Hermione. She didn't know about the Time Turner requests and now was not the time for her to discover that he had been keeping something from her.

Lucius walked from the dining room to the hallway with agonizing control. Down the hall. Out the door to the courtyard. Past the fountain, where Musca sat and waited for brave birds to perch for a drink. Into the greening grasses.

He didn't know where he was going until he got there. There were no sunflowers yet so the fields couldn't hide him. But he needed something, somewhere closed and safe that he could crawl into and be alone. At that moment he was an animal that needed the security of its burrow.

That was what propelled him into a copse of thick shrubs on the edge of the villa's property. There was just enough room for him. Within the cocoon of cool shade and the scent of evergreen, he finally felt safe enough to release the clamp of his control.

He breathed. Too fast, too ragged, but he breathed and listened to the unrelenting hammer of his heart. He didn't try to stop the panic attack. He let it build, gripping him, authoring screams in his throat, but those he smothered with his fist. It wouldn't do to frighten anyone who might be nearby. This was his problem, not theirs.

He supposed he was not having a complete breakdown if he was rational enough to consider others. After what seemed like an age, it began to subside. He was sweating, his muscles ached, and his throat was raw as if he had screamed for an hour anyway. And so tired. Merlin.

Uncaring of the dirt, grass, and insects, Lucius laid among the flora and surrendered to the toll of his emotions.

* * *

When he woke again, he felt something he had not experienced in some time. It was the sensation of being two different people in one body. Though he did essentially lead a double life now, spending part of his time playing the role of lover to Hermione and the rest as the Lucius Malfoy the world thought they knew, the voice of Hermione's Lucius and everyone else's Lucius was the same. She had integrated him into one man with a secret rather than one man with two personalities.

He understood that this was his mind's way to cope. It had to dissociate itself from the raging conflict that threatened to overwhelm it. In order to continue to function, and, Merlin help him, face Hermione and act like nothing had happened, he had to become two minds once again.

When he was alone he could try to sort through the mire and reach a decision. With her, he would have to continue Life As Usual. Though he knew that Hermione would be supportive of him no matter what he chose, in the end it wasn't her decision to make, and it would be that much harder if he knew she felt strongly one way or the other. Never mind that the fact that he'd even entertained the thought of altering the past could be hurtful to her...

If it was him, he knew the question that would blare most prominently into his mind would be: is the present with me not good enough? Lucius groaned. The lines within his mind were precarious. He remembered this feeling, years and years of it, and marveled that he had ever been able to tolerate such chaos.

He wouldn't be able to maintain it for very long. Hermione would notice. If only he could...

_But why can't you, Lucius?_

A chill slipped over him and Lucius swallowed. There was that autopilot, that other voice that had guided him for so many years - the one he had mistaken for his own. It was disconcerting how easily it came back to him. He closed his eyes. He knew what people said about others who heard _voices_.

Lucius also knew that while no one would ever find a single notation about him in any document that pertained to mental illness, he had flirted with several forms of it, if not outright taken a few home. Depression, certainly. Anxiety...well, that was why he was sitting in a wall of shrubbery right now, wasn't it? Never mind that he could label almost an entire year of his life as an acute psychotic episode.

And addictions. His was not for alcohol, as his mother's had been. It had not even been for pain. No, it had purely been for control. There was no stronger drug for one who was made to feel powerless.

With the exception of love, of course. What was it, but an addiction to another person? He knew now that if he was ever forced to be parted from Hermione, he would withdraw as horribly as one would from heroin. How could he even _consider_ going forward with the Time Turner?

_You're not thinking clearly._

No, he wasn't.

_You can't turn it down because of her. It isn't about her._

Merlin, that voice was so _cold_, but it was right.

_You can erase decades' worth of suffering. Which is the greater sacrifice? Living what you've lived so that you can be with her or taking the chance that you may never know her to remedy the past?_

For fuck's sake, he didn't know.

_Then find out, Lucius._

Yes. That was the only thing to do. He had to find the lesser of two evils and Hermione couldn't help him. She only knew how to defeat evil, not how to decide which one to accept. She had never accepted any of it. And that...that was the cardinal difference between them. He had never had the backbone to refuse, nor the courage to press for a third option.

* * *

Hermione glanced up from her book when she heard Lucius's footsteps. She hadn't even noticed that he left. It was amazing how far away a book could transport her, even one that she'd read before.

She didn't ask him where he'd been. He did look slightly disheveled, but since he hadn't yet taken a bath and was recovering from what was by all reports an excellent party, she thought nothing of it. She just watched him clear the mail off the table.

At times, the inquisitive (or downright nosy) part of her wanted to read the missives he received. Hermione also thought about what she would write to him if she wasn't his lover...if she had never come to know him again, and had found out that he was the author of Faim with only the picture of wartime Lucius in her head. Inevitably, she drew a blank. She wouldn't have written to him at all.

That was why it was difficult for her to imagine what others found to say. However, an unspoken rule had developed between them; if Lucius wanted her to see a letter, he showed it to her. If not, it was meant to be private. Howlers...well, they were given to the cats, who took great pleasure in ripping the angry red envelopes to shreds.

"Anything good?" she asked as he moved the last of the stack.

Lucius shook his head. "No. Just a bunch of rubbish." He hesitated a moment and then strode over to her. Leaning down to place a kiss on her forehead, he said, "Hermione, I need to attend to some business at the Manor. It might take a day or two."

She smiled. "That's fine. I have some studying to catch up on."

He smiled back, but she noticed that it was somewhat wan. It piqued her concern. Perhaps she _did_ want to know where he'd been...

"Is everything all right?" Hermione asked.

He nodded. "I'm just tired, and would rather spend the time with you."

Warmed, she reached out to smooth an errant strand of his hair. Though she loved that she was one of the only people in the world who ever got to see him at his most relaxed, he didn't look quite right without his usual polish. "I'll be here when you get back."

"Naked, hopefully," he joked, a little more levity slipping onto his face.

"If you're lucky," Hermione chuckled.

That levity deserted him in a fleeting instant. His face fell into an expression of such seriousness, such earnestness that she forgot to breathe.

"I _am_ lucky," he said. "Incredibly so."

"Lucius..."

"I love you." He supplemented the words with a rough yet tender kiss. "I'll see you in a few days."


End file.
